


Convergence

by LaWren0



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Abuse, Assassins vs. Templars, Blood and Gore, F/M, Manipulation, Mental Link, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Romance, Sexual Assault, Time Travel, Torture, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Violence, and after, battles of ideology, does it count as a slow burn if they were already together at one point, of a sort, set in game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-23 20:20:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7478595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaWren0/pseuds/LaWren0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is two people converged into one, where time and memory occupy the same space. He loves her regardless, even when she is splintering, and especially when she carries the weight of his own legacy so far into the future.</p>
<p>Israh has not returned to her own time after all, and Altair sets out to find her. She is determined not to change history too much, but her will falters when she knows how much he will suffer for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 Altair watched the smithy's blood contaminate the water in detached fascination, a deeper red concentrating closer to the body. He had guessed Tamir would be the kind of man to turn brutally violent when he did not get his way; the man dealt in such an outlook on a much larger scale, after all. Arms dealers were certainly not a peace loving people.

It was shockingly easy, to approach him in a crowded marketplace, focused as he was. The blade sank into his back, and he was dying.

"Why me, when so many others do the same?"

"You think yourself different, then?"

"Oh, but I am."

A feather dipped in blood, and it was over.

He lays low in the Bureau after, biding time until the bells stop ringing and the guards stop searching. The assassin was caught, they whisper, but escaped. Altair wonders if they'd bothered to use a scapegoat, or if it were an entirely hollow lie to appease the populace. Let them think the guards were more competent than they are.

He closes his eyes and sinks into the pillows in a rare state of reprieve. The Rafiq is silently asleep in the next room. All is dark save for the moon, and a shadow falls over Altair when that light is temporarily blotted out as something large flits over the grate in the roof. His eyes are open and alert in an instant, but he's missed it. The assassin lies still for a long moment, listening. Nothing. He shakes off his nerves and relaxes again, very slowly. It was just a bird, perhaps.

Except, when he is leaving for Masyaf in the morning, he is almost certain someone is following him through the city. The uneasy feeling of being watched passes once he is clear of the gates, however.

* * *

 

In Acre, he moves to save a citizen from a couple of heavy handed guards looking to abuse their power, but finds there is no need. The woman swings an elbow up into the face of the guard behind her, breaking his nose. As blood sprays into the air she twists her body and kicks the other in the stomach, sending him sprawling. She does not go in for the kill; instead she runs. They give chase and so does he, wishing to ensure she gets away. Yet she is faster than all of them, and Altair only glimpses a flash of gray robes ducking left into a side street before the guards give up.

He patrols the streets nonetheless, searching to help those who perhaps could not handle themselves so well. He gains the allegiance of monks, scholars and vigilantes for his efforts. They turn out to be exceptionally useful in fleeing from those that guarded Garnier De Naplouse. The bloody feather is folded away in his robes, and he is careful to keep it safe as he sprints after the woman shrouded in gray. She is too fast for him to catch without utilizing some dirtier tactics; a throwing knife lodges itself into a weak wooden beam on a market stall and the whole thing collapses onto her.

The woman pushes the debris off her and tries to get up, but he is on her now, pinning her back down. She near screams in pain and frustration, the same way she had when his blade had sunk into the neck of the good Doctor.

"Who are you? Why did you try to stop me?!" he demands of her, struggling to keep hold of her small wrists.

"He did not have to die!" she yells in his face defiantly, "He _was_ helping people!"

Her conviction throws further doubt onto the necessity of his actions. There were indeed those who would swear Garnier De Naplouse had saved them. Perhaps this woman was one of them.

"He tortured people." Altair argues, "Used them for cruel experiments."

Most of the fight drains out of her at those words, "I know. But he was the best chance we had."

They need to move. Guards would continue to scour the city looking for them both well into the night, and as of yet the bells had not stopped tolling.

"Get up." He orders, dragging the woman onto her feet along with him when she does not immediately comply. A fine mess she'd got him into. He should leave her to the guard's mercy, but he needed to question her, and it would be wrong to allow her to take the blame for his actions.

The Assassin is forced to bring her to the Bureau. The Rafiq is not pleased, but understood the need for it. The woman does not. She spits and curses at him when he tries to come near her, even going so far as to knock an offered cup of water out of his hand. His patience wears thin.

"If you wish to stay alive, you will do as I say." He tells her. What he does not say is that it is already too late for her. She knows of him, and of the Bureau; to let her live would be to compromise the Brotherhood.

"Tell me everything."

She does, slowly. He is glad there is no need to resort to violence. Her name is Israh, she worked for Garnier De Naplouse as a healer, because she was trying to get closer to him.

"Why?"

The woman looks at him as though he is a naive child, "To learn all his secrets, of course."

"The Piece of Eden." Altair guessed. He'd mentioned it before he died.

She nodded, "Amongst other things."

"How do you know of it?"

At this she goes quiet, and becomes very still in her seat. He kneels in order to look into her eyes. They are dark and captivating, and he knows they hold a great many secrets indeed.

"Do not make me ask again." He murmurs dangerously.

"I know Al Mualim."

The assassin recoils at that, surprised. He swears he hears the Rafiq drop something in the next room.

"How?" he demands.

But she is closed off now, and he can tell she will say no more. He would not raise a hand to her, but it is best to let her believe he may. Altair makes a show of displaying his impatience, and coils his hands into fists. She is unfazed, and the look she levels him with is unimpressed. He does not have to fake a sigh.

He will try again tomorrow. For now, he dips another cup into the water basin, and offers it to her. This time she takes it.

It is in the dead of night she makes her escape. Altair jumps up to grab her as she hoists herself through the small opening she'd made in the grate; he realizes he has underestimated her strength, and her speed. She is too quick to shut the grate onto his hand and sprint away while he curses her name in pain. With that head start he will never catch her.

He cannot afford mistakes if he is to earn back his master rank, but she may be too important to keep quiet about. He will tell Al Mualim of this incident, and hope he will not be punished further.

* * *

 

He next glimpsed her balancing on the balustrade of a nobleman's balcony.

_Kill her._

Those were the orders he'd been given, and he intended to follow them. She was a threat to them all; she could compromise the Brotherhood.

She was...interfering with his target.

Altair watched from afar as she dropped from the balcony and entered Talal's base. He had no choice but to follow.

Yet she was nowhere to be seen when he confronted Talal, and he distantly wondered if she had been in on the ambush. As he pursues the slaver through Jerusalem's streets however, she appears seemingly out of nowhere; Israh is slender and light, and easily latches onto Talal's torso, throwing him off balance. Her arm swoops down and he is bleeding from the throat.

Altair takes another second to swipe the feather across his neck, and then they are both running. He tries to reach for her to lead her towards the Bureau, but she shrugs off his arm and overtakes him easily. They are almost there when she opts to run up a wall, latching onto a window frame and begins to climb away from him. He refuses to let her leave his sight, so he follows her route. She ends up leading the way, but they get to the Bureau faster by rooftop.

Almost as soon as they are safely inside, he seizes her wrist and tugs her towards him. Israh makes a small noise of protest that is almost overshadowed by the delicate _shink_ of the bloody hidden blade as Altair triggers the mechanism.

She is a fellow Assassin. He lets go of her and stares accusingly. Huffing, she rubs her wrist gently, and he notes that no fingers are missing.

"You are an assassin."

"Evidently."

He is not impressed by her wit, and makes a grab for her again. She slips through his fingers like water, and retreats into the next room, where Malik is waiting to yell at him. Israh seems to find the ensuing argument amusing, and the attention is successfully diverted from her.

But when she tries to leave, he stops her.

"You will come with me to Masyaf. Al Mualim will decide what will become of you."

She scoffs, but relents.

He is only lightly dozing when he hears her moving in the night. Immediately he sits up, believing she is making another escape attempt, but no, she is crawling _towards_ him. He glares at her until he realizes what she wants; when she opens her robe, when she takes his hands and places them on her body. It would not be wise. He knows this. Yet it is a weakness of his, wanting what he cannot have.

They are as quiet as they can be. But he knows the sound of her laboured breath in his ear will be imprinted on his mind for the rest of his days.

In the morning, she is strangely pliant. She does not stray from his side as he gathers supplies for the journey home. They barely speak. Only when they are almost past the city gates does she start screaming.

"Please help! Assassin! Infidel! Help me!"

In an instant the crowds have turned on him, and the guards at the gates are rushing towards her cries, swords drawn. Altair barely glimpses her smile before he must run, if he has any hope of leaving the city at all. He mounts a horse and steals away, forced to leave her behind.

He decides he might well kill her, should he ever see her again. 

* * *

 

Al Mualim does not know about the second encounter, for Altair did not opt to tell him. He thinks there is no chance at all the master will not hear about the third.

It is chaos.

"No!" she is crying, "I told you not to trust them, I told you!"

The woman in her arms cannot respond; she is choking and the poison will soon kill her. There is nothing they can do. She cannot heal this. Israh struggles against him when he tries to pull her away.

One of Abu'l Nuqoud's lackeys manage to find him in the midst of people running every which way, only, he raises his sword to strike Israh, not him. For a split second Altair considers letting it happen, but he is not so depraved. His sword swings up to meet the blow and they clash loudly. He covers her until the woman passes away, and he understands Israh did not want her to die alone.

He can pull her away now, and they run through the streets. She is much slower than she is usually, and he must keep hold of her hand to keep her moving.

Once they are in the Bureau, she collapses. She is crying no longer, but he recognizes that haunted look.

"Who was she to you?" he asks, as he wraps her in blankets. The night is cold, and her bloodstained dress is flimsy and thin.

"My sister." She whispers.

He is not good at this. He does not know what to say.

It is apparent that all she requires is contact, for her arms coil around him firmly, and she does not let go. This much, he can give. So he holds her.

He stays in Damascus for a short while, wrapping up tasks he had not completed before the assassination. If she is not at the Bureau, he can find her in the market place. She buys cheap stock and sells it on for higher prices to turn a profit. It takes an eye for a bargain, and the confidence to gamble. She possesses too much of both. They spend days together, helping each other. Israh will whisper in his ear all the rumours she has heard from the merchants. She will distract guards for him. In return, he passes on intel he gains from informers. Invoices worth pick pocketing. They have reached an understanding.

Most nights, she will come to him, but on occasion he goes to her. They should probably stop. The saltiness of her skin contrasts with the sweetness on her tongue. He forgets why tasting her could ever be a bad idea. Yes, they have reached an understanding.

Until one night, he breaks it, "How do you know Al Mualim? Did he train you?"

He has so many questions. So many he is not allowed to ask. She tries to roll away but he pulls her back, against his chest, and kisses her shoulder once in apology.

She sighs, dropping her head back onto the pillows. "I cannot answer those questions. I will try to answer others."

Israh tells him what she knows of Templars. They used the Piece of Eden to grow strong. The progress they have made, for better or ill, is down to that artefact; the artefact currently in his master's possession.

"I am trying to find it." She confides.

Altair remains silent for a moment. He only half fakes getting distracted from the conversation by the smooth column of her neck and shoulder. His lips map a slow path, and she sighs.

"Why?" he murmurs, for he cannot leave it alone. It is in his nature to question.

Israh turns in his grip to look at him and she is grinning, "Why not?"

He smoothes his hand down her side, "So you are a treasure hunter, then? How opportunistic of you."

"It is not just for me." She argues, and reaches up a hand to gently drag her nails over his scalp. She likes it best when he has his hood down; when they have time to take off their robes altogether.

"Oh?" he questions.

The woman makes a noise of affirmation and nods, "It is for future generations."

Altair is not sure what she means, but he cannot ask her to clarify because his lips are busy. She does not stop kissing him until he has thoroughly forgotten what they were talking about.

"Templars." He gasps once his mind has cleared some, but he is out of breath, and her movements beneath him are not helping him focus, "You know much of them."

"Hm?"

"You are not affiliated with either Order. Not Assassins, not Templars. Yet you are trained as one but mingle with the other."

Israh does not like this line of inquiry. It goes against their understanding.

She has questions of her own. "Who is Adha?"

Altair goes rigid, and suddenly the very air feels oppressive.

"How do you know that name?" the question is soft, but his tone is hard. His hand on her jaw does not feel safe anymore.

"I bullied it out of an informer." She responds flippantly, "Is it important?"

He is furious.

The Assassin refuses to see her again. He leaves for Masyaf the next day.

* * *

 

As it happens, avoiding her is not so easy. She hounds his thoughts, his dreams, and possibly his steps. He does not think she follows him to Masyaf, but when he is in Acre again, she makes her presence known.

A missive left for him on William de Montferrat's recent movements. A letter pick pocketed from a well connected source, left for him to find at a viewpoint. A few guards that would otherwise have harassed him on rooftops, found already dead. He thinks perhaps she is trying to apologize, in her own way.

Even with the added information, assassinating William de Montferrat is not easy. Or rather, escaping after the fact is the difficult part. There are so many guards, and the main gates to the Keep are closed. Altair is surrounded by no less than eight of them when she appears, springing out of the shadows with a grace as natural as breathing. Israh takes down two before the guards realize they have another assassin to contend with, but she does not intend to stick around to fight. Grabbing his wrist, she bolts, and he follows without hesitation. She leads him up ladders and across rooftops to the castles outer walls, and shows him where they can drop down safely. They are still being pursued, and in their haste they are not as careful with their bodies as they should be. His joints are screaming in pain, but they make it to the Bureau.

As she leans against the wall and catches her breath, he presents the bloody feather to the Rafiq, who bids him return to Al Mualim. Israh is turning to leave when he enters the room again, and catches her around the waist. They are both bruised and bloody and sore, but once he is inside her the pain melts away. He does not care if the Rafiq hears them this time. Or the next.

She insists they don't impose too much on his hospitality however, so they leave in favour of lodgings in the rich district. She tells him she sleeps here whenever the residents are not home. He cannot say he approves, but it is an easy thing to forget in the wake of her hot mouth and clever hands. In periods of rest he runs his fingers through her hair; he knows she enjoys it, unlikely as she is to admit it. When she sleeps he curls around her, and thinks of how glad he is to have a companion, a _friend_ such as she. He has been lonely for a long time.

Yet she is not without her secrets. In the hour before sunrise they come for her, though they are not particularly well trained, because she is readily up with a knife in her hand at the first unexpected noise. He follows her lead, and waits silently for the last one to sneak through the window before slitting his throat. Israh dispatches the other two; one stabbed in the back and the other unable to dodge a knife thrown towards his face. Altair simply stares at her, awaiting an explanation.

He does not get one until she is finished 'hiding' the bodies, by which she simply throws them out onto the street. Then she turns to him, her countenance serious, "I think they were my friends, once."

That does not bode well for him.

In the morning, they do not rush to part. He must go back to Masyaf, but he takes his time getting ready for travel. He snags the hairbrush from her hand and brushes her hair for her, and she practically melts. He slowly braids it too - though it is not as neatly done as her own skilful work – better to fit her long, dark hair underneath her hood.

She turns to him with a small smile once he is finished. He takes all of her in, standing before him in her gray robes, and takes a leap of faith.

"Come with me?"

Her smile breaks into a grin. She does not refuse him.

The journey to Masyaf seems shorter, with Israh by his side. Altair tells her about the Brotherhood; he wishes for her to join them, and to his pleasure she does not seem adverse to the idea. He will have to convince Al Mualim.

His brothers throw him bewildered or suspicious looks when he strides into the Keep, with Israh following just a step behind. There are no express rules forbidding women from entry, but it is an odd sight to see one outside the gardens. He ignores them all, and begins to lead Israh up the stairs to Al Mualim's study.

She stops suddenly. When he turns to her she is picking at her sleeve. He realizes she is nervous.

"Are you well?" he asks gently, touching her arm. It is in full view of the assassins standing guard in the hall, and he sees them whispering, but he does not care what the others think.

She makes a noise somewhere between affirmation and uncertainty, "Why don't you speak to him first? You have questions to ask, yes? I can wait."

He disagrees, but he does not want to push her. So he meets Al Mualim without her, for now. She hears raised voices.

"I have given you a chance to restore your lost honour!"

"Not lost, taken." Altair refutes angrily, "By you, and then you sent me to fetch it again like some damn dog! You said the answer to my question would arise when I no longer needed to ask it, so I will not ask. I demand you tell me what binds these men!"

She knew before the word was spoken.

"Templars."

Israh begins to ascend the stairs gradually as they continue to talk. She feels strangely calm now, but is glad for it.

"What about the treasure Malik retrieved from Solomon's Temple? Robert seemed desperate to have it back."

"In time Altair, all will become clear. Just as the role of the Templars has revealed itself to you, so too will the nature of their treasure. For now, take comfort in the fact that it is not in their hands, but ours."

And so it was. Right there, on his desk. She dared not believe it could possibly be so easy.

"How did you know I wouldn't kill you?" Al Mualim is asking, as she rounds the corner with careful steps.

"Truth be told Master, I didn't."

"But you would have," she asserts, addressing Al Mualim directly, "if there were another you could trust to do your dirty work."

"Israh." Altair chides, but there is no heat behind it in his surprise.

"Ah, so this is the cause of your misdirected thoughts." The Master shakes his head, "You should know better than to allow a woman to come between you and your brothers, Altair."

"She is one of us." He argues firmly.

"No."

The answer comes from Al Mualim and Israh both, before she springs at him.

The execution is perfect, and her hidden blade is released at exactly the right moment. But the old man is spry, and experienced, and thus predicted her moves exactly. He counters by grabbing her arm and leaning into her momentum, carrying her almost overhead and throwing her through the large window; it shatters but the sound does not drown out her scream. Yet she manages to grab the ledge and swings herself back up, making for another attempt. Altair acts on instinct. He runs and tackles her, sending them both through the window frame, but he twists their bodies midair to take the brunt of the fall. They land in broken glass.

He is severely winded, but otherwise miraculously unhurt. Israh's back is a latticework of cuts. She is obviously dazed when she looks at him.

"Kill her!"

The order is loud and clear, and all at once a keep full of assassins are out to spill her blood.

Except for him. It does not occur to him to hurt her, even now.

She smiles.

Then there is a loud noise, and he is surrounded by smoke. It obscures his vision and enters his mouth and nose; he coughs while he feels her weight lift from his body. There are more explosions, and panicked shouting.

When the smoke finally lifts from the courtyard, she is long gone.

Al Mualim is sympathetic. "She was using you to get to me, my boy."

"I see."

Altair feels his heart harden.

* * *

 

Majd Addin, Jubair Al Hakim and Sibrand all fall to his blade. Once he is finished with the nine, Israh will be his next target; Al Mualim wants him, specifically, to do it. She is a threat to his master, and all the Brotherhood. He will approach her from this perspective, like any other target, and not from the hurt in his heart that festers in resentment. He will not kill her out of revenge. He is not that kind of man.

He is changed. Less arrogant now. Altair hopes to be wise.

It is less wise to look for her in Acre. The assassin does not go out of his way while gathering information on Sibrand, but he looks for her in all the merchants he encounters, in every healer he sees, in women wearing gray. A part of him wants to find her, to end this. Another part wants her to run, as far away from him as she can get, that he may never find her. He cannot decide what he wants more.

Jerusalem. Robert de Sable was within his grasp. Altair is ready to put an end to the designs the Templars have on the Holy Land. He takes the feather Malik offers him and slips it into his robes.

"I've been a fool."

Malik throws him a look of both agreement and suspicion, "Normally I would not argue, but what is this? What are you talking about?"

"I never said I was sorry. Too damn proud. You lost your arm because of me, lost Kadar. You have every right to be angry."

"I do not accept your apology."

Altair is somewhat hurt, but knows he deserves it, "I understand."

But Malik turns to him, and his expression is open, "No, you don't. I do not accept your apology because you are not the same man that went with me into Solomon's Temple, and so you have nothing to apologize for."

"Malik..." He wants to say more, but is not sure how to put his feelings into words. He is so grateful. He is so sorry. He loves him so.

"We are one." His brother is better at articulating such a sentiment than he, "As we share the glory of our victories, so too should we share the pain of our defeat. In this way, we grow closer. We grow stronger."

"Thank you, brother."

* * *

 

She wants to see them meet for the first time. Only she understands the weight of it; they themselves have no idea. It is probably not healthy for her to watch, but Israh would rather they not kill each other. She wishes to make sure everything plays out as it should. While she is there she can help Altair, from the shadows of course. She has betrayed him, and does not want to know what it's like to feel the fatal kiss of his blade.

Israh takes out a few archers around the funeral gathering and hides their bodies in haystacks. Altair's first instinct will probably be to stand and fight, and the fewer archers around when he is vulnerable, the better.

She is correct in that assumption. Altair retreats only a ways to get out of range, before he draws his sword and settles into a strong fighting stance. Israh peaks out from behind the drapes of a rooftop garden to watch. As expected, Maria fights fiercely and gives the assassin hell. She lands solid hits, and Altair looks to be losing. Israh thinks perhaps she and the female Templar could be good friends, if things were different.

_'We shouldn't be here.'_

_'We? You finally admit we are one?'_

_'No. We never will be. Even with the Apple.'_

_'You can't know that. I know more than you do about the Pieces of Eden, and about the future. Hush.'_

For once, she listens to herself. But her head still hurts so badly she has to squeeze her eyes shut and just breathe. Israh wishes she had the aid of Garnier de Naplouse. He could quiet the other voice.

_'Other?!' She is outraged, 'You are the intruder here, not I!'_

"Shut up! Shut up, shut up!"

It takes her only a moment to realize she was screaming out loud, and then comes a wave of shame and upset. She needs the Apple. It will help.

When she looks up again, Altair is pushing Maria away from him, letting her go. Letting her live. He will ride for Arsuf to speak with King Richard, and kill the real Robert de Sable.

But what will she do? She must have the Apple, and she is not strong enough to stand against Al Mualim to get it. When he unleashes its full power, only Altair may stop him. Once Robert de Sable is dead, the Master of the Assassins Order will turn on his own people.

Israh leaves her hiding place in all due haste. If she can get to Masyaf _before_ Al Mualim learns that Robert is dead, she may stand a chance in taking it from him. It is reckless and foolish, but she has to take the chance. It may be her last.

* * *

 

"Ironic isn't it? That I – your greatest enemy – kept you safe from harm. But now you have taken my life, and in the process, ended your own."

Robert de Sable's last words haunt him. Altair wants to believe it is not true, yet he knows it is so; he has suspected for perhaps longer than even he would like to admit. His master has betrayed him. Betrayed them all. He is starting to believe the only person he can truly trust is himself.

He arrives at the gates of Masyaf after running his horse a little too hard. The mare walks off in search of water while he takes in how quiet the city is.

"We walk the path. Al Mualim, guide us."

It is eerie, how hollow their voices are. How blank their stares. So many innocents. Even his brothers' minds have been overthrown. Though he is sorry to do it, he must cut down a few to clear a way to the Keep.

He does not want to fight this many.

But suddenly three drop unexpectedly, and the others scatter. Altair looks up to see Malik, and has never felt more relieved.

"You picked a fine time to arrive." Even though their circumstances are dire, he is happy to see his dearest brother.

"So it seems."

Malik tells him of Robert de Sable's journal he found in the ruins of Solomon's Temple. Al Mualim was working with the Templars all along. They part ways after forming a somewhat cohesive plan.

Admittedly, it is perhaps not the best plan, but it was all they had. He soon realizes that this is a battle he is very unlikely to win.

"I've found proof." Al Mualim is ecstatic.

"Proof of what?" Altair struggles against the binds that hold him, to no avail. The golden glow sticks to his skin amid a strange and immovable pressure.

"That nothing is true, and everything is permitted!"

Fighting the nine men he had previously assassinated shook him a little. They were supposed to be dead. He could only assume, hope, pray, that they were not real. Like a fever dream, or a mirage. Yet they felt solid when his sword ran them through. Was the Apple truly so powerful?

"Do you have any final words?" his former master asks.

"You lied to me! Called Robert's goal foul when you shared it all along!" Altair refused to be cowed, "You won't succeed. Others will find the strength to stand against you."

Al Mualim sighed in exasperation, "And this is why so long as men retain free will, there can be no peace."

"I killed the last man who spoke as such."

"Bold words, _boy_ , but just words."

"Tell me _master,_ " he puts a mocking lilt to the word, "Why did you not make me like the other assassins? Why allow me to retain my mind?"

"Who you are and what you do are twined too tightly together. To rob you of one would have deprived me of the other. I did try, but you saw through the illusion."

"What you plan is no less an illusion, to force men to follow you against their will."

"They live amongst an illusion already." He responds, as though he is justifying it to himself, "I am simply giving them another."

"It isn't right." He argues back, with more conviction.

"It seems then, we are at an impasse."

"No, we are at an end." One of them is going to die today. He is not afraid that it seems it will be him.

Al Mualim shakes his head slowly, before his gaze fixes upon something over Altair's shoulder.

He cannot turn to see, but his worst fears are confirmed when she strides into his line of sight. Israh moves to stand at Al Mualim's side, and Altair is suddenly fearful. He does not care for himself, but she is different.

"Let her go." He growls, his determination renewed twofold.

His former master laughs at him, and it makes his blood boil.

"I am not holding her against her will. Her mind is her own. Or at least, what's left of it."

More secrets revealed. He is not sure he can stomach any more revelations. Israh looks at him, and her gaze is clear. Al Mualim hands her his sword, "Kill him, and I will merge your minds together. This will be your new body. The Apple will ensure you can stay here permanently, without need of your old one."

Altair is beyond confused, but she levels the sword at his chest before he can ask any questions. Then he can only look her in the eye in defiance. If this is truly her choice, he won't try to change her mind. He refuses to beg.

She doesn't shy away from his gaze. Her eyes are dark, and hold an almost desperate want. He does not doubt she will kill for it. But she is not so depraved.

He realizes she can't do it before Al Mualim does, and by then it is too late. She turns too abruptly and swings; the sword slices into Al Mualim's right arm, almost severing it clean. He screams and drops the Apple, finally releasing Altair from its hold. Israh dives for it as he leaps forward, sinking his hidden blade into the neck of his Master.

"I applied my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly. I perceived that this also was a chasing of the wind. For in much wisdom, is much grief. And he that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow."

As he stands and turns away from Al Mualim's body, he spies Israh, sprawled on her side and clutching at the artefact, turning it over and over in her hands. She half lays in water and shade; she shivers and shakes, her gray robes spattered with blood. She seems somehow awfully vulnerable and exceptionally dangerous all at once.

Therefore, he approaches cautiously, "Israh. Put it down. It is not safe. It must be destroyed."

"No!" She protests immediately, horrified, "I _need_ it!"

Altair raises his hands in appeasement. He does not know what to make of this. All of this. She knows more than he, he can recognize that much. He does not want to fight her. As he draws near, the Apple projects an image. It is beautiful and enigmatic and powerful. It promises so much knowledge.

_"Destroy it! Destroy it, as you said you would."_

"I...I can't."

_"Yes, you can Altair. But you won't."_

Israh looks about ready to bolt, but she too is mesmerized by the Apple. It gives him enough time to crouch next to her, as Malik and some of his brothers arrive.

"Israh." He tries to make his voice peaceful and soothing, and places a hand on the curve of her waist, "What do you need it for?"

She looks him in the eye, and seems to calm slightly, "To stay here."

He does not understand. But he soon will.

She holds the Apple, and he holds her. Only a blanket covers her body, but they are alone in his quarters. Malik is tending to their newly freed Brothers, and the villagers. Altair's job is to deal with the Piece of Eden.

"You knew what would happen." He speculates, his lips brushing her ear as he speaks, "You always knew too much. Is this why you tried to assassinate Al Mualim?"

"Yes, in part." She whispers, "I knew he would turn on the Order, and I needed the Apple."

"Why?"

Israh takes a breath, and finally her story spills forth. By the time she is finished, his back aches from leaning against the wall for so long, but still he holds her close. She tells him that she is from another time. She has possession of another Piece of Eden almost a thousand years into the future. Suriah, not Israh. Israh is Suriah's ancestor. She is an assassin, but Suriah knows techniques that are centuries in the making. She does not tell him too much of the fight between the Assassins and the Templars. She does not want to tamper with history.

"But I did." She confesses, "I wanted to stay here so I tried to merge myself with my ancestor, through a Piece of Eden. It wasn't enough. I thought that if I had a Piece from this time too, it would...balance out, perhaps. I tried to change things; to stop Al Mualim before he hurt anyone. I shouldn't have. It was arrogant of me. I just wanted so desperately to stay here. To wash my hands of my life and return to a simpler time. I was selfish. That's why those other assassins tried to kill me. They can't find where my body is in the Animus so they're trying to force me out of synchronization. Your life narrative is too important to risk, you see. Your legacy is felt over centuries. Everything you do for the future is essential to our survival. I shouldn't be interacting with you at all."

She looks at him, and her lip quivers, "I'm not supposed to be here."

It makes sense. This is how she knew where he would be and who his targets were. Garnier de Naplouse could have helped with her split minds, which is why she tried to protect him. He had also thought it strange how little time she spent mourning her sister. This explained much.

"You are influencing your ancestor through your genetic memory." Altair concludes haltingly, "Through time itself?"

She nods, "I am my ancestor. We are the same. It's like...a reverse bleeding effect."

The Apple glimmers in her hands, gently projecting red and gold lettering and symbols in response to her words.

"We're losing." She says, and the Templar symbol appears over all, "The War. I'm supposed to be a leader, but..."

He brings his hand up to smooth her hair away from her face in comfort. It seems to be enough, for she continues speaking, "They're so much stronger than we are. In this time, we seem evenly matched. I thought perhaps – if I can't help in my time – then I could do something here to have a positive impact on our chances in the future. I could use my knowledge to alter history in our favour. Or I could inadvertently make things worse. I don't know what will happen. And while I'm here, time marches on, my people are struggling on without me..."

She buries her face into the blanket, and her words come out muffled, "I don't know what to do."

He is greatly concerned. Altair worries that she has put herself and her mind under so much strain that she no longer knows what she wants, or even who she is.

He does not know which part of her he is in love with.

One of his hands slips under the blanket; his touch on her bare skin seems to ground her somewhat. His other hand reaches for the Apple. Israh lets him hold it, but is obviously reluctant to let it go.

"It is not going anywhere, my love."

Her breath falters at his words as he gently extricates the Piece of Eden from her grasp, and places it on the floor next to them.

"I didn't mean for that to happen." She breathes apprehensively.

"Hm?" He questions as he slowly tugs the blanket away.

His fingertips trace a path up her inner thigh before she replies, "This."

He stops. He is unsure of what she means exactly, but his heart is beating strangely hard.

"This?"

She does not know what to tell him. Already she has said too much about his future. She should have never been involved with him at all. He is meant for Maria. But she wants him for herself, so badly.

When she is silent for too long, Altair removes his hands from her body.

She kisses him. It is a goodbye, so they draw it out.

"You must do what you believe to be right." He tells her sadly. He thinks she has made the decision to go back to her own time. He thinks he understands, but he doesn't.

"Yes." She agrees regardless, "It's all I can do."

She can tell he does not want to leave her alone with the Apple, but eventually he must; many of his brothers want him to be the next Master of the Order, and he must attend to them.

She uses the Apple, along with the other Piece of Eden, to merge her two selves together. Then she leaves.

* * *

 

He writes to her, in a fashion. There is nowhere to send the messages. Still, it helps calm his mind to put his thoughts to parchment, so he tells her everything. Altair carefully seals the newly finished letter and places it in the small oaken chest with the rest.

_I am planning on leaving information behind for Assassins of the future, such as you. My memories will be the messages. Perhaps you will be the one to find them, perhaps not. I hope the pieces will fall into good hands, regardless. I hope they will assist in this war your generation is losing. I will do everything I can to set up your generation for success, I swear it._

His hand had paused here momentarily in hesitation, but soon forged swiftly on.

_Maria Thorpe is staying in Masyaf for the time being. I have much to tell you of Limassol and Kyrenia and the recent death of Armand Bouchart, now that I finally have a moment of relative peace. It is a long story however, and thus requires a letter of its own. Maria plays a large part, but in short, her eyes have been opened to the folly of the Templars goals. She has expressed a want to travel East, and I would like to accompany her. We both have a thirst for learning, and philosophy. She is rather remarkable, and I am somewhat relieved the two of you are not destined to meet; I would fear for the leaders of the world if so._

_As always, I pray you are alive and well. I hope these words will one day reach you, somehow. I wish you strength in your fight, and happiness in your home._

_Safety and peace, Suriah,_

_Altair_

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this is a multi chapter fic now since I have no self control whatsoever. This was meant to be a duo, to finish Altair's timeline. Then I was seven thousand words deep and only about a quarter of the way through the story I wanted to tell. So I had to break it up. I have no idea how many chapters there are going to be now, I'm afraid. But I'm sick of looking at it so it's time to post something.

 

She woke gasping, horrifically disoriented. Immediately, she knew something was terribly wrong. She was not herself. Panicked tears blurred her vision and further added to the lack of awareness of her environment. Where was she?

Israh tried to sit up, but hit her head on something and cried out in surprise more so than pain. In trying to lift her arms however, a searing, sharp pain made itself known. Blinking away tears, she managed to look down at herself. In the dim lighting she could make out needles in her skin.

Oh. Oh no.

“Oh please.” She gasped out loud. Her throat was parched and her voice weak; no one would have heard her even if she knew who she was pleading to, “Please no.”

Her breathing was getting away from her, and Israh lay her head back down in an attempt to calm herself. In doing so her worst fears were confirmed; the white and pale blue screen flickered to life before her eyes, noting where she had last been.

Acre. 1196 AD.

She wanted to scream.

Instead, a hoarse, broken whisper escaped her, “Altair.”

It hadn’t worked. The Pieces of Eden had not stabilized her in her ancestors’ time. Suriah could not hold back the sobs of grief that bubbled up from her chest. Her body was so weak it almost physically hurt to cry, but she managed to speak through her tears, “Animus, deactivate.”

The screen obediently retracted from her sight and the whole room dimmed as the Animus powered down. Suriah sat up as best she could and ripped the needles out from her forearms with a reckless desperation. The I.V drips had long run dry; she had not intended to stay in Israh’s body for long if the Pieces of Eden had not merged them together. It was the Amulet that been keeping this body alive, barely; she was far too thin, and her skin was sallow. Yet she could not bring herself to care as she tried to stand and predictably crumpled in a heap onto the floor almost immediately. She dragged herself up on shaking arms to lean her upper body against the Animus.

Why was this happening? Using the Apple to merge her two selves together seemed to have worked from 1191 onwards, so why not here? Why was she still tethered to this body? She didn’t want to be Suriah.

Who was she?

At that thought she grew inexplicably calm. She was herself. She knew it at once. There was no battle in her head between two separate people, no voice of her ancestor as a separate entity. They were one. All of Israh’s memories and experiences were her own, and vice versa.

She was the same person. She just remembered a time when she wasn’t. One person, with two bodies, in two different times.

Her head hurt. But her plan had worked, in a sense.

It took what little strength that remained in her to pull herself up to sit on the Animus, but it was enough to spy the Amulet that lay at the base of it. Resting in a glass chamber, the Piece of Eden had grown dim as the Animus had, since it was no longer being used. Israh worried what kind of detrimental effects such long term use could have on her. At the very least, the energy it projected could be enough for someone to track her. Be they Templars or Assassins, both would want her dead.

She would prefer that her fellow Assassins kill her, for at least then the Amulet would fall into the hands of her kin over the Templars. At this point, Israh still had little faith that it would do any good in winning the war for them though.

Without the heat and light from the Animus and the Piece of Eden, she was suddenly struck by how cold the room was. Her breath was beginning to visibly fog every time she exhaled. She needed blankets, and food. She needed to regain her strength; Suriah had no idea if this body still needed to continue to live in order to exist in Israh’s time too. What had happened to her ancestor’s body while her consciousness was here?

Distantly, she could hear a distinctive echoing, groaning sound of something very large shifting. Perhaps the ice above her was thawing slightly. Was it summer already? What date was it?

Israh grew tired at the mere thought of trying to drag herself across the room towards the lockers, and instead lay down, lifting her knees to her chest. The needs of her body seemed like they had made themselves known all at once; she was exhausted, hungry, and cold. She could have cried again with how awful she felt, but resolved to be strong, even though there was no one to witness her weakness. Suriah was alone here. She had no friends or allies to take care of her.

Except one. But he could not reach her. The one person in both her lifetimes thus far that had stood by her, accepted her, and loved her. Even when he’d known the truth about whom and what she was.

“Altair.” She whispered again, softly. She had not been separated from him for long in the grand scheme of things, yet she missed him terribly. Israh firmly reminded herself that it was of her own doing. He had not spurned her; she had chosen to leave him. She had brought this upon herself.

Curling in on herself even further, she could not shake the feeling that she had made a terrible mistake.

 

* * *

 

_Suriah,_

_It has been a while since I have seen fit to write you. Maria and I were married in Limassol and have only recently returned to Masyaf. The circumstances of the Order have not been easy, but also not unmanageable. A few of my brothers have not yet settled into the idea of reform, but that is of no consequence at this moment. They can be convinced. If only I could be certain that my actions will help you in the future. I wish to take the Order in a new direction; one that I hope will guarantee our survival. Would you agree with me? Do you?_

_I wish I had your wisdom now. You always spoke cryptically, and I understand the necessity of it, but would it truly change history for the worse if I could only be certain of my path? The Apple shows me things I find difficult to make sense of. If you were here, no doubt you could help me understand. Or perhaps it truly cannot be used for naught but corruption, and I am fooling myself. Maria often cautions me of the Apple’s dangers and she is becoming a voice of reason if I ever heard one. What would you think to do with it, I wonder?_

_So many questions, still. I know I will never have all the answers._

_As always, I will keep these letters to you safe, where none other may find them. It is best that none know you interfered with the events of my life, however brief our time together was, lest there be dire consequences for you in the future._

_Safety and peace._

_Altair_

Setting down the quill, the Mentor stretches in his seat. Writing to Suriah had become a comfort, a method to organize his thoughts. It is now five years since she left, and sometimes he thinks of her when considering the future. What impact might his legacy have on her and her fellows in arms? The desk creaks as Altair leans his elbows upon it, thinking. If Suriah were to find his letters to her, would it be at all possible for her send a message back in time to confirm she had received them? Could she still use her strange Animus to inhabit her ancestor’s body, or had she decided never to do so again? If it were still possible, would she aid him, or avoid him entirely?

So many questions.

If she had tried to contact him, he knows nothing of it. Perhaps she is unable to. Perhaps she is dead, and all her efforts had been in vain. Perhaps the Assassin’s Order is finally spent, in her time.

Altair stands, wishing to shake off those dark thoughts. He checks on the messenger birds and blows out the candles on the desk before he leaves for his quarters. Maria would be there, likely already asleep, and at the moment he wants nothing more than to curl around her and rest his mind.

 

* * *

 

Suriah was eager to get back into the Animus, but knew it was best to wait until her body had recovered. She was terrified that her body in the past was withering away while her consciousness was here, but eventually decided it was better to have one body safe and whole than potentially lose both because she did not take care of herself. Perhaps her other body was already dead? _Something_ had forced her out of synchronization; but nothing dramatic had happened to her as far as she could remember. She would know soon enough, one way or another. So she kept track of the days, and kept a singular focus to her tasks; eat well, train hard, sleep soundly. Take care of this body. If Israh’s body failed, she had other ancestors she could go to. If Suriah died, she would lose access to both the Animus and the Piece of Eden. She would be unable to travel back and influence history in any way. She would fail in her goal.

So it was decided. Eat, sleep, train. She must keep her strength up.

She had no idea if any Templars or Assassins were close to finding her here. Given that she was in a safe house built for them, it was likely Assassins would find her first, but the fact that they had sent others back to 1191 to kill her suggested that they could not track her in this time, and thus were resorting to desperate measures; her kin would not use the Staff to allow others to inhabit their ancestors’ bodies otherwise. Not when they had made it so clear that they strongly disapproved of her doing the same thing.

Not for the first time, she wondered whose ancestors she and Altair had killed. She hoped they had been smart enough to use Assassins who already had children to pass on their genetic memory. But then, they had not been so merciful to her in that regard. Israh did not yet have children, which meant it was probable those bastards had risked ensuring Suriah had never existed.

Keenly, she felt the sting of that betrayal, still. Was her leadership truly so poor? Did they simply hate her that much? She was trying to _help._ Why couldn’t they see that?

Sometimes she wondered if the Templars had the right of it. As long as human beings had free will, conflict was inevitable.

Suriah wished she could talk to Altair. He doubted too at times, didn’t he? She was trying to stay true to the Creed, to keep it alive, but what if she was wrong? What if her methods changed history so much that it hurt people, and put them in a worse position than they were now? What if her efforts to resist the Templars were actually causing unnecessary suffering and death?

She sighed, and turned over in her cot, dragging the blankets with her. She should be sleeping. She was committed to this path now, and intended to see it through, consequences be damned.

 

* * *

 

The Apple had almost taken him in completely, at first. In the early days Altair would not eat or sleep, despite Malik’s chiding and cajoling. Now however, he is somewhat wiser to how powerful and tempting the Apple is, and thus if he keeps a singular focus he could better see what it had to show him without succumbing to its lure.

Except this time, he trips up where he has not done so in years. This time he sees Israh again. This time he sees another Piece of Eden, an Amulet, inside a strange, glowing table of some kind. He sees Acre, and Assassins in white and gray running over rooftops. He sees a golden Cross, and immediately feels a great sense of disquiet.

He knows then Israh is in grave danger.

“Where is she now?” he asks urgently, “Show me.”

It wants a price for the information. It wants obedience. It wants to be used to control. The Apple promises knowledge and power, if only he would give in. He is already thinking of what he is willing to sacrifice to know–

“Altair!”

He startles and drops the Apple, where it rolls over the table only a little before halting and growing dim. The Assassin blinks harshly and meets the eyes of his wife before he realizes he is standing, having knocked his chair back onto the ground haphazardly.

“What has happened?” Maria questions, unsettled, “What did you see?”

He does not know how to answer, his thoughts are so jumbled. The former Templar approaches him with no caution in her step at all, taking his face in her hands firmly.

“Look at me.” She commands, and he obeys unthinkingly, “Organize your thoughts, and become present here with me.”

Altair rests his forehead on Maria’s and closes his eyes, trying to calm his mind. She is patient with him, letting him take as long as he needs to open up to her. She knows the Apple almost had him for a moment, but waits for him to admit as much to her.

“It showed me Israh.” He is honest from the start, “It showed me another Piece of Eden. I think she is in trouble.”

Maria already knows the nature of his past relationship with this woman, but Altair has not mentioned her in years. She knows that the Apple used to taunt him with visions of Israh frequently after she had left him. At first, she was all he saw. His heart’s desire. Obey, the Apple promised, and she can be brought back to your side. It played on his guilt later. Obey, and you can forget her, to love Maria fully.

She does not expect him to forget. Whatever and whoever had come into his life before she did was his business.

“In trouble? How?” Maria asks, pulling back to look at his face, “You told me she is far into the future now, helping her own people.”

Altair shakes his head in confusion, “She is. I don’t know how exactly. It showed me that it has something to do with a Piece of Eden, and Acre, perhaps. It was not clear; I _felt_ the danger more than saw it, truly.”

She nods seriously, “What do you intend to do with this information?”

The Assassin takes her hands from his face and holds them tightly, “I am going to see if I can reach her.”

“You mustn’t look into the Apple again.” His wife responds immediately, concerned for him.

“I know.” He agrees, “It showed me Acre, so that is where I will go. It is not the best lead, but I have to try. She would do the same for me, and I must prevent any Pieces of Eden from falling into the wrong hands.”

“Then go.” She gives her blessing, “I pray you can help her.”

“From what I saw of her pain, she will need your prayers, my love.”

 

* * *

 

Altair has indeed mellowed somewhat over the years, but if there is one thing he will never have the patience for, it is overly observant guards.

“You! Get down, now!”

It is only the first time he has been seen, but he cannot summon the incentive to be the good Assassin and stay in the shadows. A throwing knife lodges itself into the guard’s throat, and Altair continues on his path over the rooftops of Acre.

He can still scarcely believe what the Rafiq had told him, but all the signs were there, now he knew what to look for. Acre had fallen to Crusader forces a year after Altair had assassinated his targets here in service to Al Mualim. He had instructed the Rafiq and his men to lay low as a result; he did not wish to abandon the city of Assassin influence entirely, but unless he were to mount an all out siege that would likely end in failure, there was little to be done in ridding Acre of Templar forces now they had such a firm foothold here. In light of this, it was indeed strange that the Templars in Acre had seemed quiet over the years, but Altair counted it a blessing and had not bothered to think too much on why that might be, instead devoting his full attention to the turbulence in Masyaf and then Cyprus. The Apple had shown him Assassins that were not his own students were residing here, and the Rafiq had confirmed this, but only through word of mouth; the man had thought the Novices who had seen these so called Assassins merely inexperienced and paranoid. And why not? For who would dare to start their own guild of Assassins so close to Masyaf; in _Acre_ of all places, right under the Mentor’s nose? And yet, Altair thinks it is in fact the perfect place to hide; in plain sight, just as the Creed taught them.

The Creed has not given all its wisdom to the boy he is tailing, however; he is obviously young, and seems to be nervous and skittish. He does not wear Assassin’s robes in the traditional sense, but the black and red sash of an Apprentice tied around his waist is the biggest give away, if one only knows what to look for. Beyond that, the boy is clearly no fool. He checks behind him on his path through the streets surreptitiously and periodically, blending into the crowds that pass him well enough. He is highly trained, but inexperienced; he does not think to look up.

Aiming to use this to his advantage, Altair waits until the boy ducks down an empty side alley before he pounces from above using the new technique he and Malik had been working on; he casually leaps off the rooftop edge and lands on the Apprentice, knocking him to the ground easily. He has the boy’s arms locked behind his back before he can struggle properly.

“Hush boy, I will not harm you if you tell me what I wish to know.” Altair tells him, pinning him more firmly with a knee to his back.

The boy continues to resist at first, but the Master Assassin tugs at his arms in warning, and he lets out a cry of pain before realizing he is already defeated.

“Alright.” He says wretchedly, “Alright.”

Altair claps him on the shoulder to convey that he is allowed to stand, and steps back from the young Apprentice so he may catch his breath. He looks embarrassed, but not surprised.

“You are an Assassin.” Altair starts with the obvious.

“Yes.” The boy confirms, rolling his shoulders, before making his own observation, “As are you.”

Nodding, he tells the boy his name, and the Apprentice’s eyes widen in recognition and shock. Altair hopes revealing his identity will guarantee his cooperation. “I have heard there is a network of Assassins here that are not beholden to Masyaf, or to me.” He continues forthrightly, “Is this true?”

“Yes.” The boy answers simply, “Our Mentor decided it was appropriate to work separately, in the interests of protecting sensitive information.”

“Who is your Mentor? I must speak with them. I am looking for someone who might have influenced this guild from afar.”

The boy need not know just how far; he would not believe that Suriah could be pulling strings centuries into the future. At his words however, the boy becomes hesitant. Altair tries not to let his exasperation show, “Speak, boy.”

The Apprentice shuffles awkwardly, considering, and Altair is about to bark another harsh command at him when he finally answers.

“Israh Ahmed. She may also go by Suriah Ahmed.”

The names catch him off guard, almost like a physical blow, and it takes him a moment to answer, “That is not possible. She departed these lands.”

The boy shakes his head, “She is our Mentor. Acre is her home.”

His mind is reeling. He thought she had left for good, to return to her own time. His heart is in his throat when he speaks.

“Where is she now?”

At this, the Apprentice’s body language becomes even more closed off, and he looks like he is about to bolt. Altair is not quick enough to reel in his temper.

“Where is she?!” he snaps severely, and steps forward. The boy blanches, but holds his ground. There is a strange kind of staunchness in his eyes, born from a desire to protect his Mentor.

“With respect, Master, I would not tell you even if I knew.” His spine grows straighter, “I do not live or work in Acre. I have been sent for from Cairo.”

At this, Altair frowns slightly, “Sent for? By Israh? Why?”

“Not Israh specifically. It was suggested by some, shall we say, _forceful_ personalities that all under her tutelage come here. There is to be a meeting to discuss our...methodology. The Mentor is meant to be there, but...”

“But?”

“She has not been heard from for a short time.” The boy confides, “It is not so unusual for her to leave Acre occasionally on her own business, but her Second is gone too, which is certainly odd. A few have taken it upon themselves to look for them, but most are choosing to stay hoping they will return soon enough.”

Altair takes a moment to process this information. He had always known Israh to be fiercely independent, perhaps to a fault, but he thought it unlikely she would simply abandon her kin; even if the majority of her guild were apparently unconcerned, this only confirmed to him that she was in some kind of trouble, “She is missing then.”

The boy shrugs, “She is capable of taking care of herself, whatever she is doing. And Luca will probably find her and bring her back. It is my hope they will return before the Assassin’s Council is to begin.”

“This council,” Altair begins, “Will the whole of Israh’s guild be there?”

“Not all have come. But most, yes. Even if many of us do not believe it is necessary,” the way the boy spoke implied he was one of them, “I would rather have my voice be heard in support of our Mentor.”

Altair thinks of the brothers who stood against him after Al Mualim’s death. Thinks of Abbas and the ever enduring grudge against him. Of course there would be dissent in Israh’s ranks too. If any of her own had tried to be rid of her, he would track them down, and hopefully Israh in turn.

“Lead me to this meeting place.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a monster of a chapter, this one.  
> In case you missed the tags, it's appropriate to issue warnings for torture, mental and emotional manipulation/abuse, violence, blood, sexual violence, and the threat of rape/sexual assault.

 

 When she wakes it is to the sound of heavy rain, so she does not open her eyes immediately. Thunder proceeds over the noise not a few moments after, and she smiles. Witch weather, Israh believes; when one could feel the charge in the atmosphere, the excitable energy she could not quite give a name to. It is noisy and clear, just how she likes it.

But she should not be hearing it. Not this far north. It does not rain here, it only snows.

There are bells tolling in the distance.

Israh bolts upright with a gasp. It is dark and her eyes need a moment to adjust, but her body is projecting a soft, golden glow. She knows immediately it is a Piece of Eden.

“Ah, finally, you wake.”

Looking over to her left, there is a man seated on a rickety looking chair right by a flaming torch. He is holding a cross that emits the same glow that sticks to her skin. Israh quickly takes stock of her situation. The small dungeon cell is cold but miraculously dry; the windows are but gaps in the stone wall. The hay she had been sleeping on had protected her from the frosty, hard ground, but now she is awake she realizes she is ravenously hungry. It is likely she has not eaten since her consciousness has been in Suriah’s body, and only the Piece of Eden the man holds has been keeping this body alive. She looks down at herself and is shocked to find that her body looks perfectly healthy. Her skin is not sallow, her muscles and fat have not wasted away, her long hair is shiny rather than brittle. It does not make sense. Her consciousness had been in Suriah’s body for months.

Stasis, she immediately thinks. The Amulet could alter time itself. Surely it could stop time too. Israh looks over to the man again. Is he aware of the power he wields through her?

It is not immediately apparent the man is a Templar, which she finds odd. Usually they are proud to the point of pigheaded arrogance, announcing their allegiance to the world however possible. But this man wears no uniform with a blatant red cross, nor does his demeanour hint at a superiority complex. He slouches in his seat, making himself smaller. Yet who else would hold a Piece of Eden and know how to use it?

For one horrifying moment Israh considers the possibility a fellow Assassin has imprisoned her, and prays she is wrong.

Her questions are answered as the man speaks lowly, “Nothing to say? You Assassins are always so quiet. Silent as the grave, as my mother says. Necessary in your line of work, I suppose.”

Not an Assassin then. She allows herself to feel relieved, but is back to analysing him again in the next second. He is speaking English but she cannot place the accent. Certainly not French.

The storm grows louder as thunder rumbles directly overhead, so the man says nothing until it passes. In that moment of quiet Israh begins to mentally prepare herself to do whatever necessary to survive this scenario. Torture was a likely possibility. She must be prepared for whatever he intended.

As the rain outside begins to taper off he speaks again, gesturing to the Cross in his hand, “It pulled me to you. It called to its sister.”

She frowns only slightly before remembering to school her expression into neutrality, lest she give anything away. She had an inkling of what he meant, but he need not know that yet.

The blank in her memory was worrying however. She had been in Acre, when her consciousness was last in Israh’s body, but she could not remember what she was doing. It was the same with Suriah’s body; she could not remember if she had even entered the Animus. When she tries to think on it, a searing pain jolts through her temple, and her mind feels like a white fog descended over it.

“Where am I?” she asks, her voice surprisingly strong. The man makes a dismissive gesture.

“A waste of a question. There are more important ones to ask, such as...” he stands before he is finished speaking, and the chair scrapes against the floor lightly, “what are you?”

His accent was Spanish, perhaps. She wasn’t willing to bet on it, but it was her best guess.

The man sighed, “Typical silence. I was warned only torture would make you talk.”

Israh would be lying if she tried to tell herself she was unafraid. She embraces her fear instead, accepting it. She could be terrified and still hold her tongue. He walks toward her and she scurries back, despite the fact that there are iron bars between them. Instinctually she readies a fighting stance, though her hidden blades have been taken from her wrists. He titters, seemingly amused. Then he unlocks the cell door.

“You are not stupid enough to run, I hope.” He intones confidently, “You are tethered to this Piece.”

It frustrates her that he is right. Her skin still glows, and she has no doubt he could command her to do anything with the Piece of Eden at his disposal. She had seen the way even Altair had been forced into submission by Al Mualim, though the Apple had not been able to compel its way into his mind, just his body. Israh knows her mind is...delicate, with the severe strain she has put it under over the years; she knows her limits, and decides it's unlikely she would be able to resist like Altair had been able to.

To prove his point, the man raises the Cross, “Come here.”

It is the most terrifying feeling, having her body obey when her mind does not wish to. She gasps as she strains against her own traitorous muscles, but her feet move of her own volition to stand in front of the man. Up close, by the light of the Cross, she can make out his features somewhat better. He has pale irises but dark hair, and is broad shouldered in stature. He appears young, yet his stance is self assured, and she could make an educated guess that he knows how to use the sword strapped to his waist.

“Tell me your name.” He commands, and she opens her mouth to obey.

But no sound escapes her.

When she says nothing, he raises the Cross higher, and his voice grows louder, “Tell me!”

The urge to do so is a powerful one, but it is not all consuming. While her body cannot resist, her mind is insulated from the effects of the Piece of Eden. Israh theorizes it may be because her mind has been estranged from her body for a long time, or perhaps she has built up a tolerance. Whatever the reason, she keeps her silence.

For the first time the man is frustrated, and a hard frown appears on his face. At once she can tell that he is one to throw a tantrum when he does not get his way, and she is proven correct when he grabs her arm roughly and yanks her out of the cell, bodily dragging her behind him. They climb some steep stairs, and she does not struggle too much; the Piece of Eden’s power still hovers over her skin like a veiled threat.

Pushing open a heavy wooden door, he leads her into the main body of a church. Candles adorn the pews and are placed heavily upon the sanctuary. The man hauls her halfway down the main aisle before throwing her forcefully onto the unforgiving ground. Her hip and forearms hit marble and she winces. A few patrons turn in their seats, but only to give her and her jailor a dispassionate look before turning back to the priest conducting a quiet prayer. Dismissing her mistreatment like she is nothing.

That is when she is certain they are of the Order of the Knights Templar.

 Esteuan hardly leaves her side, which she is quickly losing patience over. It might have been bearable if he didn’t constantly try to talk to her. Since the Cross could not make her talk, it seems he is determined to make her by other means. He tried causing her pain through it, but strangely that hadn’t worked, and he told her he had no desire to torture her “the good old fashioned way.”

“It is so unnecessary, don’t you think? All the blood that would run,” Esteuan held up his hands, palms up, before examining his fingernails, “Such things are far too messy for my liking.”

Israh supposes that much is a blessing, but he is far from a kind jailor. He takes a sadistic pleasure in making her body bend to his will through the Piece of Eden, knowing it distresses her deeply. He makes her fetch things for him, and act like a servant. He leaves the door to her cell unlocked, taunting her, giving her the illusion that she could try to escape. Yet they both know she cannot truly leave without him releasing her from the Cross’ influence.

One day, he makes her stand in his sparse living quarters, right by the bed. He examines her body as if she were cattle to be slaughtered. He touches her arms, her face, and she can do nothing. Then, he fists a hand into her gray robes and rips the fabric away. It tears violently and leaves skin exposed, and she weeps as she speaks to him for the first time since the day she had awoken.

“Please don’t.”

Esteuan raises an eyebrow, “It needs washing, that’s all. If you would rather stay in such filthy robes, so be it.”

He left her there to stand and shake and cry. Pretending as though he had done nothing wrong, adding insult to injury; acting like she were being foolish and overreacting. But she knows what he meant for her to think.

For that threat alone she will make him suffer before she kills him.

Now she knows his game. He deals in torture of the mind rather than the body.

And he keeps trying to talk to her.

“The tenets of the Creed make no sense.” Esteuan laments, propping his feet up on a stool heavily. She can tell he is settling in to talk at her for a good long while. Her prison door is left open, as usual, but she is curled up on the hay in the furthest corner away from him. “Tell me, how do you delude yourselves so effectively? ‘Assassins believe in freedom’ you say, while enforcing the rules of your Creed. ‘Assassins want peace’ you say, while engaging in war.”

Israh glares silently. She does not care to debate the philosophy of the Creed with a Templar. It would be a waste of breath.

But Esteuan refuses to leave her be, “You do not see the hypocrisy in your ideology?”

“We are aware of the ironies.” She bites out, frustrated at having to talk to him at all, “The Creed is full of nuance and complexity, full of questions rather than answers. These questions require experience to even attempt to answer, assuming you believe yourself wise enough, which you are not.”

The Templar scoffs, “So because your Creed has discrepancies, that makes it right? A pathetic argument.”

“I am not arguing with you.” She tells him firmly. She declines to humour him. This is not a debate.

He leans forward somewhat, “Templars are the ones that believe in true peace. Humans are stupid creatures; we squabble amongst ourselves over insignificant matters. Human nature is destructive and cruel and must be brought to heel if there is ever to be an end to suffering.”

The Assassin hates that his words strike a chord within her. What he says makes sense, and it makes her defensive, “But order is not peace! _Freedom_ is integral for peace within the individual and as a whole society! Assassins protect the people’s freedom from your kind!”

“You protect no one. All you do is allow chaos and death. Think of all the lives that would have been saved had there been no more war or strife. All those that have suffered and died because you thought they should be ‘free’; their blood is on your hands, Assassin.”

Israh springs up, furious, but quickly deflates. He is not wrong.

Esteuan continues gravely, “You see? ‘Freedom’ is an illusion; no one is truly free when the world is so full of pain. ‘Freedom’ matters little against the weight of human lives. Sacrifices must be made to secure a consistent and lasting peace for all.”

It scares her that she does not disagree. She turns and paces restlessly in her cell. He watches her, but does not stay silent for long, “So now you are learning. Now I’m sure you can imagine how frustrating it is when Assassins do all they can to prevent our goal of peace.”

“It is necessary.” She murmurs, half to herself.

“Is it?”

Israh stops pacing and looks at him through the iron bars of her prison, and decides it would be preferable for her to die than remain in a cage.

“Peace must be found within the individual too,” She tells him, “if it is to be found as a whole. Every person matters. Human lives matter, as you said. If they are not free they cannot be at peace. I am not at peace when you ignore my free will.”

He shrugs nonchalantly, leaning back in his seat, and her blood boils, “Your individual feelings do not matter.”

“You truly don’t understand, do you? You don’t understand how terrifying it is when it’s even implied your mind and body are not your own. I suppose you Templars think you should retain yours while you rule over everyone else? Taking basic freedoms away from others but not giving them up yourself. _You_ are the damn hypocrite.”

Finally, it appears she has struck a nerve, for he is the one who springs out of his seat this time, “You know nothing of me, nor the Knights Templar! We try to change human nature for the better while Assassins are content to let humanity rot in its own filth!”

“If the Templars did not exist we might be able to better focus our efforts on protecting innocent people from the corrupt! As it stands we waste time and resources on sitting you down. We must use the methods we do to stand against you; the only other option is to lay down and die!”

His arm strikes out faster than she can react and his hand closes around her throat before yanking her forward, until they are nose to nose through the iron bars of her cell. He hisses in her face, “Then perhaps that is a new approach you should take.”

 

* * *

 

 Riaz is the boy’s name. He leads Altair through the winding streets of the poor district, almost to the opposite side of where the bureau lies, by his reckoning. It is a wholly unremarkable building, gray toned like the rest of them, and inside there are many women, mostly tending to the sick or wounded. None bother to remark upon their presence even as Altair focuses his eyes enough that the world goes dark, and suddenly each of the women are bright, blue hued allies, which reassures him.

“Altair,” Riaz calls gently, and the Master Assassin corrects his vision quickly, “Down here.”

They climb down a steep staircase that grows murkier with each step, until there is very little light by which to see anything at all. Yet Riaz presses on until they reach a humble trap door in the stone ceiling above them. The boy throws Altair what is meant to be a heartening smile before he climbs the ladder, “This is it.”

Altair follows as Riaz opens up the small door, and grunts as a bright, white light engulfs them, aggravating his eyes. An arm appears above him and Altair accepts the help to climb through the door.

The scene that greets him reminds him of Masyaf’s gardens. The courtyard is bright and open, with tall, decorative pillars. Even small waterfalls trickle into a winding lane of water that intertwines with the sandstone path. Riaz is securing the door behind them as Altair gazes around. It is beautiful. Did Israh build this, or just discover it?

Fellow Assassins mill about, quietly talking amongst themselves. One breaks ranks to stalk purposefully towards him, and Altair straightens his spine, only for Riaz to gently brush against his arm as he rushes into the young Assassin’s outstretched arms.

 “You’re late.” The young man whispers, “I was worried for a moment.”

The boy laughs shortly, “No you weren’t, you were happy for the peace.”

“There is no peace for me while you are not at my side.”

Riaz scoffs and pushes him playfully away, but he is blushing sweetly, “Hush up. There are more important things to consider.”

“Such as?”

The boy gestures behind him to where Altair is standing, but before introductions can be made, a woman materialises seemingly out of nowhere. Her especially dark skin contrasts beautifully with the vivid colours she wears; the red sash at her waist in particular.

“Names?” she asks, immediately businesslike. She is holding a long scroll and quill balanced upon a wooden board small enough for her to carry around with little effort.

“Riaz Ajam...” he answers uncertainly. His partner steps up close to him, and Riaz speaks more confidently on his behalf, “and Mas’ud El-Amin, from the Cairo branch.”

The woman nods gratefully as she scribbles, and then turns to him expectantly.

“Altair Ibn-La’Ahad. Masyaf.”

She near reels back and has to catch her inkpot before it threatens to tip over on her board, hurriedly righting herself and the contents in her arms.

“Oh!” Her voice is soft and unspeakably anxious, “Oh _shit_.”

“That’s what I thought too, when he told me.” Riaz pipes up amusedly. Altair crosses his arms as he observes Mas’ud’s jaw is wide open in shock. He does not fully understand these reactions.

“Forgive me.” The woman is quicker to recover than Mas’ud, but is still flustered, “This is unexpected. The Mentor has put so much effort into avoiding you that I– ah! No, not _avoiding_ you, exactly, she’s just...”

She closes her mouth before she can spill any further unflattering information, pinching the bridge of her nose as she exhales loudly. Altair’s eyes narrow; he would be having words with Israh about this avoidance behaviour.

The woman appears to steel herself before she speaks to him again, “The Mentor could not have invited you to the council meeting? She explained her desire to work separately from the Masyaf guild more than once.”

“She has had a change of heart.” Altair states firmly. Or rather, he would soon convince her to, when he finds her. He hopes this white lie of his does not sour this inquisitive woman’s relationship with Israh, for she seems to hold her Mentor in high regard.

“Has she? She never mentioned it. I had no idea she was in contact with you?”

“Perhaps she did not see fit to tell you.” He responds curtly. The woman takes offense and scowls before she walks away from him, but she is almost immediately replaced by two others.

“That’s Lindiwe,” a very pale woman with a serene voice tells him; her Arabic is well but the accent is strange to him. Her hood covers most of her face, “She and Israh are quite close. Lindiwe serves as something of a scholar mostly, to help the Mentor organize us.”

“So please don’t take her suspicion personally, ser,” the other woman interjects, in the same accent. She seems slightly taller and her hood is down, revealing brilliant red hair, “She’s only doing her duty.”

Altair nods in acknowledgement of this, uncrossing his arms. “What is this council here to discuss?” he demands to know. The women give an almost identical wry smirk while Riaz and Mas’ud share a meaningful look.

“Come, walk with us.” The red headed woman says, touching his arm gently to encourage him to move alongside them, “We are drawing too much attention at the door, and not all eyes and ears are necessarily friendly.”

The women –Irina and Sabina– turn out to be twins, and they take turns in discreetly pointing out to him those that called for this Assassin’s Council. The major players are the Leaders; essentially mentors of their own branches but whom are still accountable to Israh. Their supporters are a minority, but they are loud and influential. They reportedly disagree with Israh’s leadership in how she organizes the Order, and in the methods she espouses.

“Perhaps they are well meaning, and are truly acting in the interests of the Order.” Irina, the calmer of the two speculates, “Yet I sense it is equally likely they just wish to oust her to secure a better position for themselves.”

“I agree!” Riaz exclaims. He is much more animated beside Mas’ud, “I fear they are not here in good faith.”

“Their motivations will seize to matter,” Mas’ud says, “if they achieve their goal either way. If the Mentor does not show up they will use that against her, and possibly gain more support for themselves.”

“Her absence is not of her doing,” Altair defends, “I know that she has been taken from her duties involuntarily.”

“Whether that’s true or not, the Assassin’s Council will begin tonight, with or without her.” Sabina declares sadly.

“But we will be there to speak in the Mentor’s favour.” Riaz states decisively, before turning to Altair, “Will you speak at the council on Israh’s behalf? You could tell them you think she is in danger elsewhere, and that’s why she can’t be here. You are the Mentor of Masyaf; your voice carries weight amongst all of us.”

Altair is not sure what to do. His impulses demand that he seize each individual the twins have pointed out to him and beat them until they swear they have nothing to do with Israh’s disappearance, and then keep going until they confess that they do. Yet it only takes him a moment to steer his mind away from that satisfying image and cool his brash nature. He believes that men can be soothed with reason over force. Besides, if they truly had hurt Israh in some way, then he mustn’t alert them to his suspicions. Best not to tip his hand too soon. It would be appropriate to learn more of his targets first, and he can achieve that if he hears them speak.

“I will do all I can.” Altair promises.

 

* * *

 

 She had fallen into an uneasy rest on the floor of her cell only to be awoken a by a gentle rattling of her prison bars. The door swings open on noisy hinges.

Turning over in alarm, she makes to shuffle away from whoever had entered her cage, but freezes in surprise when she hears their voice.

“Israh, it’s me, you’re okay. I can barely see a thing down here. Why is this cell door already open?”

“Luca!” she gasps in recognition, “Thank heaven. Listen-”

“There’s no time.” He whispers back, “I had to kill a guard to get to you, he could be discovered at any moment, we need to go now.”

Luca grabs her arm and hauls her up as he speaks, hurriedly moving to leave.

“You don’t understand, I can’t- ah!”

As she expected, her body suddenly stops moving before she can cross the threshold of her cell. Luca turns to her in confusion.

“What are you doing? We have to go!”

“Luca,” she grinds out, “I can’t. I physically can’t.”

The golden glow has brightened from a dim simmer to an almost blinding light, and in it she can see his expression morph into one of understanding.

“They are controlling you through a Piece of Eden.” He correctly concludes, “What can I do?”

She doesn’t know. It seems too dangerous to ask him to try and take it from Esteuan; it could trap him here as well.

“Nothing. You can do nothing, boy.”

Luca emits a harsh cry as he is forced to his knees before her. The Cross in Esteuan’s hand glows imposingly.

“No! Leave him alone!” Israh beseeches. She knows it is useless, but Luca is a Brother, one of her own. She is more scared on his behalf than she is for herself.

Luca begins to convulse, his jaw set until he can hold back his screams no longer. Esteuan does not stop.

“Please! Stop! Stop it!” she cries desperately. Luca is raised up by the Cross before he slumps forward in the air, gasping. She knows that Esteuan does this to distress her. He does not truly care about punishing Luca for trying to spring her free; cares more about using him against her.

“Do you know him well?” The Templar questions eagerly. She grits her teeth and glares, for he already knows the answer. He is just toying with her.

Luca is making a groaning noise, and it is clear he is in pain.

“What should we do with him, hmm?” Esteuan asks her, “How useful do you think he can be?”

“Let him go.” Israh struggles to clamp down on her fear and speak evenly, “He is just a boy, of low rank. He is of no use to you.”

She is lying, and Esteuan grins, “Oh, I think he could be of some use, _Israh._ ”

He turns the Cross on Luca once more, and she is helpless as he screams.

“What is she?” the Templar demands, “Where did she come from?”

Her Brother is hurting, but he is no mindless thrall yet, and incredibly he puts up a decent fight. Luca holds his tongue even while his soul aches. Israh squeezes her eyes shut. Think. Think. There must be something she can do.

“I don’t know!” Luca yells, “Please! I don’t know!”

His voice cracks in pain and Israh has had enough. She roars, “Stop! _Stop!_ ”

The golden light behind her eyelids brightens then recedes so she snaps her eyes open. Luca and Esteuan are on the ground and are no longer glowing; the Templar is groaning, dazed, while the Assassin is already trying to struggle back onto his feet. She isn’t sure what just happened, but it doesn’t matter now.

“Come on Luca, let’s go!” She cries as she rushes to help him up. He doesn’t need to be told twice, and he leans on her a little as they run.

They make it to the vestibule of the church before the both of them are engulfed in light again and forced to a stop. Israh growls in frustration as they are made to turn towards Esteuan. Who it seems is done playing.

“Draw your knife.” He commands grimly, and Luca must obey, “Cut her.”

Her shoulder stings, but it is not deep. Luca looks horrified all the same.

“Tell me who she is.” The Templar is not asking this time, “Tell me what she is.”

When the Assassin remains silent, Esteuan jerks the Cross, and Luca’s arm jolts with it, cutting her hip. She can’t hold back a hiss, but otherwise tries not to show her pain. The poor boy looks to be on the verge of tears.

“Israh...” he begins uncertainly, but she manages to shake her head.

“Don’t.” She tells him, “Say nothing.”

Esteuan makes him carve the symbol of the Templar's cross into her stomach, and she whimpers, but is mostly trying to encourage her Second to stay strong. They have gathered an audience; those tasked to guard the church mostly, who thirst for blood in vengeance for one of their own fallen to Luca’s blade.

“You are an Assassin.” She reminds him shakily, “This is nothing. Nothing is true, everything is permitted. So this means nothing in the end.”

Her words seem to be helping, because Luca’s eyes are glassy and his jaw clenched, becoming closed off from what he’s doing to her. She gave him an order and he is obeying it.

Eventually, Esteuan grows impatient at the lack of results, “Enough! Israh, take the knife.”

She struggles, of course, but fruitlessly. Her Brother stands resolute. He expects it’s his turn now.

“Stab him.”

She gasps as the knife pierces through the soft flesh of Luca’s stomach. He grunts as Israh twists the knife without meaning to.

“No!” she rasps, sickened, “Luca!”

Without the Piece of Eden holding him up, he crumples, only just managing to brace on one knee and curl in on himself. His already blood soaked hands come up to his stomach and press down as much as he can stand.

“Tell me all I wish to know, or he will die.” Esteuan states plainly.

Rage fills her, terrible and pure, worse than she might have ever felt in both her lives.

“If he dies,” her voice does not shake anymore, “you will die too.”

Esteuan _laughs,_ and she can feel the vibrations in her own chest. Hear it ringing in her own head. She grasps that, holds onto it, feels the way the Pieces connect, and _pulls._

Esteuan stops laughing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've edited this one so much because I just wasn't sure I if was taking it in the right direction. I was going to put Altair in Luca's place originally, but decided to delay the reunion a bit longer. I hope that turns out to be the right decision.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assassin's Council shenanigans. I've finally realized I like semicolons a bit too much so I apologize in advance.

 It is sunset, and the Assassin’s Council is beginning without Israh here to defend herself. Altair wants to be out physically searching for her, but his best leads would likely be those that speak up against her here. Besides, if she were alive and well, she would surely never forgive him for not preventing the fall of her guild in her absence.

Each cell had chosen a representative alongside their Leader to put forth their ideas, but there were still over fifty people in the room, which he is glad of. He’d been given something of a crash course in the structure of Israh’s guild; one cell is made up of two teams, there being four Assassins to a team. An Assassin Leader is a guide to no more than four cells, and eleven out of thirteen are present at the Council. That means he can make an educated guess that there are around four hundred members of Israh’s guild, all evidently hailing from many different regions. Riaz and Sabina are here, having been elected by their own cells, but those are the only friendly faces he knows. He could recognize many of the Assassins that the twins had shown him earlier. Beyond that, the majority are strangers.

However, he secures Lindiwe’s support in agreeing to announce his presence. She assured him that every Assassin here will know who he is; it is a power play, one he hopes will make Israh’s enemies hesitate. Despite their somewhat frosty beginnings, he and Lindiwe are united in this; Altair falls in to stand beside the scholar as she reads off the list of cell representatives and Leaders, settling everyone into their seats around the makeshift council chamber.

She saves his name for last, as they planned, “Finally, in our Mentor’s unfortunate absence, an appropriate replacement has agreed to guide this meeting in her stead. Altair Ibn-La’Ahad, Mentor of Masyaf.”

Where there had been an uneasy quiet around the room, it now erupts in hushed murmurs and shifting seats as some strain to get a look at him. Altair steps up to take his seat at the far end of the chamber at a leisurely pace. As he sits slowly, he is sure to scan his eyes over the room to take in the reactions of those that plan to stand against Israh. They look far from pleased, and already Altair finds that he is enjoying himself, despite usually not being one for such ceremonies.

Nonetheless, he wishes Malik were here. His Brother has a way with words that he does not; five minutes of the Dai’s time and all here would be wrapped around his fingers.

“We were all expressly forbidden from contact with the Masyaf branch.” One of Leaders Irina had warned him of spoke up, “Does our Mentor flout her own rules once again?”

“We decided jointly to keep our guilds separate. Keeping each other updated on our movements in order to better coordinate was the most practical thing to do.” Altair dislikes lying, but he isn't terrible at it, “If a Mentor gives you an order it is for a good reason, Leader.”

He knows that pulling rank is risky; it may foster resentment over respect, but it is also his most powerful card, and Altair’s instinct is to charge in and boldly press all advantages. It seems to have worked for now; the man reluctantly nods and does not answer back.

“But Masyaf’s leadership structure is different to ours, no?” A woman asks, “So you must disagree with our Mentor on how to organize the Order?”

“Not at all,” He answers, “Each guild has its own strengths, and in our differing structures we may cover each other’s weaknesses.”

This seems to appease the woman, amongst various others. There are murmurs of agreement. Riaz is smiling.

One man leans forward noticeably, “That much I can understand. What I have trouble accepting is our cowardly methods. Acre is a Templar stronghold, despite our presence here. Yet the Mentor does little to nothing about it!” He stands as he speaks, moving physically with the momentum of his words, “We skulk in the shadows while Crusaders bleed this land dry. There are enough of us that we could retake the city if we wished it, we could drive the Templars out! But the Mentor is content to sit on her haunches and let them hurt innocents!”

Altair’s eyes narrow in on the man. He is older than many here; his hood is down to reveal greying hair and a rugged face, and his posture speaks of many years of experience. Before the he can consider forming a retort, Sabina is out of her seat also, quick as a snake and her words just as poisonous, “Have you considered, Eógan, that our Mentor has her reasons for allowing this? Has she not cautioned against the dangers of open warfare before? We are too few and the Crusaders are many, and not all are Templars. In attacking them so openly we would be declaring war upon all Crusaders, possibly England and France themselves!”

Eógan. He would have to remember that name.

“Sabina speaks wisdom.” An elderly woman speaks gravely, her soft tone a contrast to the harsh words that came before it. She does not stand. Her pale hair frames the deep lines in her face which suggest she is even older than Eógan, “Do you forget the cruelties of war so readily, Eógan? Or are you simply used to them, by now? Innocents suffer in this city, yes, but how many more would suffer and die if there were to be open battles in their streets, in their homes?”

Altair recalls the people of Masyaf and all they have endured because his Order resides in the Keep. More than once the citizens have been subjected to Templar attacks because the Assassin’s presence had painted a target onto the city. Inwardly, he agrees gladly with the elderly woman. Eógan seems to be defeated by this response too, albeit grudgingly. He sits down, and so does Sabina.

“We work in the shadow to serve the light,” Another woman pipes up. She does not stand either; her hands neatly smooth over the prominent swell of her belly, “Our Creed is open to interpretation, but I do not doubt Israh’s understanding of it. She has always held true to the Creed, in my eyes, and that is the best we can ask of her. This Council is an insult, in my opinion."

A strong reply in a language he has never heard before comes from his right. Lindiwe takes it upon herself to translate the woman’s words into Arabic, “Has she, Chloe? I disagree. I think the Creed is quite plain, but our Mentor ascribes her own values to it that warps its true meaning.”

Interesting, Altair thinks. Infuriating, but interesting.

“Nothing is true,” Chloe counters, shrugging, “So what are you truly saying?”

“Perhaps her ‘interpretation’ is wrong. Perhaps we are all following the wrong orders, on the wrong missions. Perhaps her leadership does more harm than good.”

At this the near silent room is suddenly on edge, but the woman continues speaking, and Lindiwe translates nervously, “It is my belief she knows more than she allows us to know. I believe she keeps us in ignorance. If this is so then she has dishonoured the Creed. She has led us astray, and this makes her a traitor to the Order.”

There is swift and instantaneous uproar as too many Assassins gasp and shout and speak all at once. Riaz finally finds his voice, “The Mentor would _never!_ ”

“But she would!” Another voice yells back, “She has always openly questioned the Creed! And she has always seemed to know too much about the Templars and their movements!”

Altair is about to raise his own voice to silence them, but suddenly the heavy wooden doors to the chamber are thrown wide open, hitting the walls with a thunderous bang. His breath leaves him in a rush when he sees who crosses the threshold.

Israh pauses there for a moment until another Assassin appears at her side. She waves him off as she enters the chamber, “I’m fine, Luca.”

She is evidently not fine. She is covered in blood and cuts and so is Luca. The room is deathly silent now. Israh presses a hand to her side and winces slightly as she lowers herself into the head chair that Lindiwe had hurriedly vacated for her.

“Forgive my tardiness.” The Mentor mutters sardonically, “Templars do not make kind jailors.”

The room erupts in a throng of voices once more. Israh cannot make any out distinctly, but she can feel a headache coming on already. She holds up her hand for silence, and is obeyed.

“I am well, and the man responsible will be hunted down. Tell me what you have discussed thus far. _Individually,_ please.”

The silence endures a moment, for no one is willing to go first after causing such a ruckus.

“There are some here that question your commitment to the Creed, and your strategy against the Templars.”

It cannot be. Yet his voice is unmistakable, and her heart skips a beat. Now that she is aware of him, Altair’s assured aura dominates the room and she is unsure how she failed to notice him when she entered. The Master Assassin reclines in the seat directly opposite her own. His hood covers his eyes, but she can see the beginnings of a gentle smirk along his mouth. For a moment, she is taken in completely by shock, and it feels as though the room narrows to just the two of them. She should have known he would find her eventually. How long had she secretly hoped for it?

Israh blinks harshly and looks down, but cannot keep the smile off her face. It is so good to see him again, to hear his voice. But there would be time for a proper greeting later. They have both taken up the mantle of Mentor, and they must act like one. He shouldn’t be here, but she cannot tell him to leave in front of her followers. He is the Master of Masyaf.

“I see,” she intones quietly, “And what is it about my instruction that troubles you so?”

Israh glances around the room as she speaks, leaving the question open to anyone.

Those that had spoken so brashly against her in her absence now fall suspiciously quiet. As though her physical presence has finally reminded them of their loyalty, or perhaps just intimidated them into silence. She is still caked in blood after all, and looks as though she has just returned from death’s door itself to chastise them. Altair struggles not to smile, despite the flutter of concern in his chest.

Riaz answers her, “I think your absence might have shaken the faith of some, Mentor. They forget the reasoning behind your orders.”

Israh hums, and speaks with empathy, “That is understandable. Many of you are stationed so far away you know me best on a missive than in person. I regret that. Perhaps I should travel to other branches frequently to oversee you personally, and talk to you about any problems within your region. Would that be well received?”

The responses range from enthusiastic nods to indifferent muttering. Israh grins a little, and from that point uses candid charm to endear herself to the room as Altair watches in fascination. She asks more questions than she answers, letting all know she is invested in their struggles, and that she aims to understand their grievances. Altair chimes in with his own wisdom and experience to back her up wherever he deems necessary. It is enough to mollify many. Israh asks after the wellbeing of their loved ones, and answers inquiries about her own life and work. 

“Ah, Eógan Mac Fáelán,” she speaks gently to the old man, “Is Ireland truly so bad, my friend? That scowl seems permanent.”

“I think it’s just his face.” Sabina quips, and Eógan’s frown deepens.

“Speak.” Israh implores, mostly ignoring Sabina’s sharp tongue, “I would hate for resentment to fester within you, brother.”

“The English are a bloody pain in my arse,” Eógan grumbles after a moment’s hesitation, “And I thought the Normans were bastards.”

“It must be difficult for your branch, to be caught between them in trying to protect people from conquest.” She takes a moment to think, “I’ll see what I can do about shifting more resources up to you. I know that your instinct is to meet them on the battlefield, Eógan, because you have experience there, but I cannot give you sanction for that when it would likely end in compromising the Brotherhood.”

Eógan sighs, still observably dispirited, and Israh continues in a soothing manner as she stands, “We are all weary, I think. Perhaps we should close this meeting and rest a while. I want to assure all of you that I hear your frustrations, and I will work on them with you. We will continue this council tomorrow. You are dismissed.”

The scraping of chairs being pushed back and relieved murmurs affirms her order, and the Assassins file out gratefully. Lindiwe and Luca are at her side immediately in concern, but Israh dismisses them with a wave, “Later.”

Altair does not move. He waits. Luca hovers uncertainly, and she must give him a stern look before he concedes to leave the room, head bowed. When all are gone except Altair, she takes a single step in his direction and near collapses as her strength finally gives out. He is over to her in an instant.

“Your chambers?” he asks as he lifts her.

“Upstairs,” she whispers weakly, “Left corridor, furthest door down.”

He carries her there with speed but sets her down on the bed with gentleness. She struggles to stay awake while he cleans her cuts and covers the worst of her wounds in bandages, but gives up the fight quickly. Altair does not mind, for now. His questions can wait until she is rested.

When she wakes the room is mostly dark, save for a few lit candles at the dressing table. Her eyes adjust slowly, and she has to question her perception twice over to be sure that Altair is comfortably seated in the corner of the room.

He has not left, and that makes her heart warm.

“You had the light of a Piece of Eden around you, while you were sleeping. It alarmed me at first,” he tells her evenly, “for there were none here that I could see.”

She does not want to think about the implications of that right now. Her head hurts.

Altair continues, “Luca believes you are tethered to not one, but two Pieces? He told me a very vague account of what transpired when he found you. Lindiwe is buried in books, trying to learn more of what effects your ordeal may have upon you.”

Israh cannot find the energy to speak, but she pushes herself up as best she can to lean against the headboard.

“I would be interested to hear what happened to you from your own mouth? If the Templars that held you are still in possession of a Piece of Eden, then they must be hunted down-”

“Altair,” she interrupts quietly, “Come here.”

If he is surprised, he shows no sign of it except to pause a moment before cautiously obeying.

“Sit down.”

He does so, slowly. Immediately she reaches out to wrap her arms securely around his shoulders. Altair stiffens, and it takes him another moment to return the hug, but when he does he holds onto her just as firmly.

“I have missed you too.” He admits, and she sighs, smiling slightly. It feels good to allow herself this, after she has worked so hard to stay away from him for so long.

He holds her for as long as she needs, until she is ready to pull away. Once she does so he speaks again.

“Five years,” he murmurs, “For five years you have been at my doorstep, and I remained unaware. In all that time, did you not think we should see each other again?”

She hardly believes he sounds hurt, but the tone is unmistakable. Of course he is hurt. He had loved her, had he not?

“I didn’t want to influence you,” she explains. She has repeated this justification to herself many times, “It could compromise the Order. I don’t want to change the future.”

He is obviously frustrated with this answer, though he tries to hide it, “But you do. In fact you are here for that very purpose. If you truly wished to assist the Creed, you would not have left Masyaf after Al Mualim’s death!”

“That’s not fair!” she argues fervently as he stands to put some distance between them, “Everything I have done, I’ve done for the Creed! To plant the seeds that will bear fruit in the future!”

“If that were true you would have seen wisdom in working together, Israh! You would not have left my side!”

That gives her pause, and it takes her a moment to find her voice again; she considers telling him that leaving him was one of the hardest things she has ever done, but decides against it at the last second, “I...I did what I thought was right.”

Altair curses under his breath. This woman always had a talent for getting under his skin, and it seems that has not changed.

“I have not compromised the Brotherhood.” Israh says, aiming to be persuasive, “I have led my students down the path _you_ believe is the best course, because I agree with you; no open warfare, more secrecy to the outside world yet more openness amongst our kin. Less restriction in methodology providing it doesn’t hurt the innocent. There would have been advantages in working together, yes, but would you truly have been content with me keeping you ignorant to the impact of your actions upon the future?”

He stays quiet because they both know she has him there. It is in his nature to question. He would not have left it alone.

She forges on avidly, “You see? It would have caused more problems than it solved for us to work together. It was not necessary for us to interact when I already know what you want the Order to become, and I planned accordingly. So why are you so angry?”

He takes a moment to think. He could sense why – he knows his heart – but he hardly dares to follow that train of thought to its conclusion. Certainly he could never utter the words aloud; as though their existence given voice would forever be an insult to Maria.

Because I would have chosen you.

He had wanted her to stay with him for another reason beyond what she could offer the Order of course, but neither of them are willing to acknowledge that now. It is in the past.

A knock breaks their staring match. It is Luca, bandaged up but walking fine, and he is full of remorse.

“Mentor...” he begins gravely, but she is quick to cut him off.

“Don’t start.” She warns, “There was nothing you could do. It is over now.”

“I think you’ve been punished enough.” Altair adds, and for a moment she is confused until she spies Luca’s blackened eye that had not been there before she slept.

“Altair thought I had betrayed you,” Luca explains before she can explode in outrage, “when I told him it was me that inflicted the worst of your wounds, until I told him about the Cross.”

“I would know more of it.” The Master of Masyaf says, turning to her expectantly. With a sigh, Israh proceeds to tell him of the Templar Esteuan, and the Piece of Eden he possesses. The three of them piece together what knowledge they can from their own perspectives, but there is much more that they don’t know, which frustrates Israh especially. The blanks in her memory are alarming and disorienting and her head _still_ hurts.

“And what else did he do to you?” Altair asks eventually, his voice low and dangerous. Luca is tense now as well, and for some reason she cannot bring herself to answer honestly.

“Nothing.” She utters, and kicks herself mentally when she sees the men share a look, but it makes her even more prickly, “Leave it alone.”

It is a warning, but Altair does not heed it, “I will kill him for you.”

She is honoured and strangely touched despite the macabre nature of his offer. Israh shakes her head regardless, “If he is to die it will be by my hand.”

Altair nods once, accepting this, and Luca changes the subject, “Israh, I have one more question.” Her Second gazes at her in something akin to wonder, “How did you do it? When you turned the Cross against the Templars, it answered to you. You used it to heal me. How?”

Israh remembers the way the Templars had fallen, their bodies twisting unnaturally until bones shattered and their blood boiled. She had never seen Esteuan scared until that moment; he had run from her like she was death incarnate. And when she’d prayed for her Second to survive, it was so. His Mentor bites her lip at this thought before she speaks, “I don’t know, Luca. It was instinct. I’ll need more time to think on it.”

He isn’t satisfied with such a vague answer, but he nods regardless, “I’ll leave you to rest.”

When he is gone Altair cautions her, “Wielding Pieces of Eden is not something that can be accomplished by any man. Even the rare few that might seem resilient can be taken under their spell.”

“I know,” she replies, “I think it might have something to do with the Piece of Eden I have in the future too, as though the Cross and the Amulet are connected, through me.”

“Do you still have access to your descendant’s body?” he asks, “Is your mind still split?”

Israh shakes her head, “I think so? My other body still lives in the future, but my mind is not torn anymore. The Apple helped. I’m the same person now, just...with two bodies. Where is the Apple now?”

She hopes using it for herself did not cause any trouble.

“With Maria.” Is all he says. There is no one he trusts more with it, save perhaps Malik.

“I see. That’s good. I’m glad it’s safe, and that it seems nothing has drastically changed in your life so far.”

“You received my letters then?” he inquires, surprised, and she realizes she must have slipped up somewhat.

“Oh. No. You wrote to me?” she is confused too, “I know who Maria Thorpe is because I’ve studied the events of your life historically.”

“Ah.” He is a little disappointed, and slightly embarrassed, “Well, I have been writing letters to you because I thought you might be able to find them in the future, as Suriah.”

She nods in understanding, feeling awkward. That is...sweet of him, to try and give her guidance and encouragement so many years from now. Israh tries to dampen the instinctive smile that threatens to appear. There is a rather discomfited silence until Altair speaks again, haltingly, “But I have no more need to write them, now I know you are here. We will see each other in person often enough, will we not?”

That sets her heart hammering, and she answers hesitantly, “What do you mean?”

“I am asking if you will agree to be allies, Israh. Will you consent to having our guilds work together?”

It is a bad idea. Not necessarily practically, but emotionally. She can guide him as long as it isn't to a detrimental degree, but she is also not sure how she can stand to be around him without relieving past feelings for him. Yet she cannot very well admit such a thing to his face.

“Yes.” She agrees, and wonders if torture of the heart is her next fate.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pacing is going to pick up a bit now.

 

 The Assassin’s Council is wrapped up within a week, with agreements and concessions being made wholesale. Those that had taken issue with Israh’s leadership left seemingly unaware that they had been sweet talked into submission, much to Altair’s incredulity. They have no excuse to move against her when she is being so accommodating, and thus have little ground to stand on in criticising her. The Mentor of Acre has dodged a blow, for now.

Israh is slightly more concerned with just how much interaction with Altair is wise. As she predicted, being in each other’s presence soon became complicated. It was elating at first, to cooperate as allies and friends again. She had missed his company dearly, and he highly valued her support; working together was pleasant yet tense at times. She would lean too close in explaining something to him, but he would not move away. He would speak to her softly, intimately, making butterflies gather in her stomach. Fingers would brush in passing objects to each other or reaching for the same things; they would jolt away as though burned, but over time their hands began to linger instead, and that was worse.

When she was first introduced to Maria, Israh struggled with a tight ball of nervous energy in her chest. She tried to hide it but Maria’s critical gaze seemed to score right through her, cutting her down to the bare bones of shame and insecurity. Israh had known the former Templar was a powerful woman, but to actually be in her presence and understand that firsthand was something else. Intimidating, was an apt word. Altair grinned when his wife eventually left them to their work.

“Shut up.” Israh murmured, observing his shoulders shake with silent laughter.

She was much more comfortable around Malik. They had met before only briefly when Israh had accompanied Altair on his missions to Jerusalem five years ago, but they took a natural liking to each other as soon as mutual interests were established. They enjoyed speaking of history and philosophy, and often teamed up to poke fun at the Master of Masyaf.

“Do you think the Novice knows that is not how you use an atlas?” Malik commented to her lightly, watching his Brother struggle to find something but making no attempt to help.

“It seems not, Dai. Poor boy.”

Altair takes the jabs in good humour, a marked contrast to how he would have acted five years ago. She notes that Malik seems proud of him.

Israh would come to Masyaf more frequently than Altair would go to Acre, but they often discussed similar things regardless. He asks so many questions of her, particularly about the Apple and the things he saw.

“This land here,” Altair speaks animatedly as he points to the rough map he had drawn, “the Apple showed it to me. What will it be called in the future?”

“Russia.” Israh answers, somewhat amused; he is like an eager puppy when it comes to learning, “You met Irina and Sabina? That is where they are from.”

“So this land is already inhabited then? You already have an Assassin presence in place?”

“Yes,” she confirms, “My goal is to have a branch in every continent within the next few years.”

“That seems wise,” he comments quietly, still drawn in by the map, “What lands have you not yet reached?”

Israh gently extricates the map from his grasp to bring it closer to her side of the desk. They have been in his study for hours already and she knows he has other things to attend to, but once he begins asking questions he does not wish to stop, and she hasn’t the heart to deny him. Crudely, she sketches her own outlines, adding to the world map he is creating.

When she is finished she turns it around again so he can see, and points as she explains, “Just to name a few; this Island nearby Russia is Japan. This land here is what will be America, and further down is Mexico. To the east here is Australia. And there are a fair few European countries I’ve yet to crack, here, see?”

He nods in a way that reflects his attentiveness, “Is it true the lands curve?”

It takes her a moment to understand what he is asking, “Oh, you mean they curve around the globe? Yes, Altair, the Earth is round, not flat.”

He is confused and waits for her to explain further.

“The planet that we reside upon is called Earth,” she clarifies patiently, “All these lands and the ocean, everything, make up planet Earth. There are other...lands, upon other planets in the universe. The universe is made up of...well, space. So much _space_ Altair. There is the sun and stars –you know what they are of course– and our Earth, and there are other planets called Jupiter and Mars and Venus-”

As she speaks she draws another picture for him, of the planets revolving around the sun so he can visualise what she is saying, though her work is nowhere near as good as his. It doesn’t seem to matter to him though. He is enthralled by her knowledge, by her wisdom, by _her._ Altair looks up from the drawing to gaze at her as though she knows all; as though she has the single definitive answer to all the questions he could ever think to ask. She catches him staring but he does not look away. Israh cannot conceptualise his thoughts, but knows if he keeps looking at her like that she may do something reckless.

She tries to change the subject, “I brought these books for you from Lindiwe’s personal collection and you haven’t yet touched them.”

Israh gestures insistently to the pile of books beside him on the desk. It breaks his singular focus upon her to her relief. Obediently he chooses a book and settles into his seat while she picks out another.

“If you have any questions about the text, let me know.”

He smirks as though he thinks she will soon regret that offer.

They stay up reading long into the night. Altair looks up to ask another question.

“What does this-”

He stops speaking abruptly when he sees she is sound asleep. He considers carrying her to a vacant room for the night but decides not to disturb her. Instead he envelops her form with a thin blanket before he blows out the candles.

 

* * *

 

Altair does not see her again for a month or so, since their duties to the Order take up their time so adamantly. He is releases a messenger pigeon with a missive for the Rafiq of Damascus before he spies her through the window. She is wearing a dress and he does not recognize her at first; it is white instead of grey, and billows in the light breeze.

He goes down to meet her while she is coming up, so they stop in the hall once they see each other. Uncertain of what to say, he approaches slowly, “You look...”

Israh tries to hide a slightly self-conscious grin while she explains, “It is my birthday. Lindiwe gave me this as a present. There was a small celebration in Acre for me.”

“I see,” he replies, “I must get you a gift.”

She shakes her head with a dismissive gesture, “No, you mustn't. I wanted to share some cake with you though.”

Out of the woven basket she is carrying on her arm, she produces a small package wrapped in brown paper and string. Altair takes it from her and opens it to reveal a square loaf with jam and cream inside it; he breaks off a piece and pops it into his mouth, chewing slowly. It is very sweet with a hint of tartness, and he smiles at her somewhat.

“It’s good,” he says, “Thank you.”

Israh smiles back warmly. He drinks her in with his eyes, for she is a vision like this. Her dress indeed has a hood but it is not as severe as the one on her robes, so he can see her face clearly. Her long hair is not braided back as it usually is; it spills forward over her shoulders and he is struck by a sudden urge to run it through his fingers. He remembers she likes that. The already charged atmosphere between them deepens.

“I love Maria,” he is not sure why he feels such a pressing need to say it, but he suddenly thinks it is imperative that he does.

“I know,” she answers softly in understanding.

Altair abruptly finds the heat of the day unbearable and turns to retreat back into his study, “There are tasks I must complete, but you are free to wander, as always.”

When he is gone, Abbas reveals himself and approaches her.

“Mentor,” he is respectful, placing a hand on his heart, “I am Abbas.”

“Good to meet you,” she responds, despite the fact that she already knew him.

“I won’t waste time with pleasantries,” Abbas says, “I have a request. I ask that you allow me to transfer from Masyaf to your guild in Acre instead.”

At this she frowns, “Why? What is wrong with Masyaf?”

“Nothing,” he replies simply, “It is not Masyaf that I have a problem with. It is its leader.”

She had guessed that, of course. She knows what Abbas will do to Altair and his family in the future, but as of yet she has no idea what to do about it.

“I will speak to Altair about this then. See if I can’t make an arrangement on your behalf.”

He bows his head gratefully, and leaves her be.

Israh spends some time with Malik and passes on some cake to him too, and then she moves on to Maria.

“Happy birthday, Israh.” Maria greets when she sees her. She is watching over the Novices in the training ring alongside Rauf.

“Thank you,” Israh replies. She presents the piece of cake to the woman somewhat nervously, “I brought this for you.”

“Oh, cake!” she exclaims in joy, “It’s been so long since I had some. Thank you.”

That puts the Mentor at more at ease, “It’s no trouble at all. Are you well?”

“Quite,” she responds, “And how are you? Have you fully recovered from your ordeal at the hands of the Templars?”

Israh stiffens a little before she answers, “Yes. I am much better now.”

Maria does not look like she completely believes her, but does not pry. The atmosphere between them is still awkward, but Israh accepts the conversation as progress.

When the sun goes down and it is cooler, she visits Altair in his study again, hoping he is done with his work. She sits upon his desk regardless, and he raises an eyebrow to her before his attention shifts back to his writing.

“Abbas wishes to leave Masyaf and join Acre’s guild instead,” Israh states, getting straight to the point.

Altair does not look up. He only shifts his weight before he answers, “No.”

She tilts her head impertinently, “Why ever not?”

He turns to her then, “I do not trust him around you. I would prefer he remain where I can keep a watchful eye upon him.”

“Does he not follow the Creed sufficiently?”

Altair sighs, “Would that be true so I could be rid of him. He respects it well enough, but rigidly. He leaves no room for change, even for the better.”

“You think the Creed should change?” she enquires curiously.

“Not the words,” he explains, “but the meaning, depending upon context. It cannot be strictly enforced with the exact same understanding or it will not survive. Not over the centuries in which humanity will change and grow.”

Israh looks at him for a long moment before smiling wryly, “Then there truly is no answer as to what the Creed should mean.”

Altair frowns slightly. She elaborates, “Esteuan asked me to clarify some tenets because he didn’t understand. I admit I did not explain it adequately enough. I already knew that there was no definitive answer, but...”

She shakes her head, still smiling, “I just thought you of all people would be the true arbiter of the Creed.”

“That is amusing, because I look to you for guidance with the Creed.”

That brings her up short. She does not understand.

“I can only make decisions with the information at hand, currently. I know not what implications they may have on the future,” Altair sits with her as he speaks, projecting a judicious energy, “I can hope, but there is nothing I can do that will guarantee my teachings take root. _You_ know best what is relevant of the Creed for your time. It is wise to draw on your history, but do not be constrained by it. You should adapt the Creed with the times, so that it may survive for the next generation.”

Israh stays quiet for a short while, taking in his words. When she speaks it is with a hint of awe, “You’ve already thought about this in depth, haven’t you?”

“You are my legacy. I intend to do you proud,” he responds simply.

She hopes her eyes are not welling up, but she can feel that pride in her strongly, and it makes her happy, “ _That_ is amusing, because my decisions are made with the intent to make my ancestors proud, ironically enough.”

“You are a credit to the Order, Israh. You do not live to serve the wishes of your elders; you are free to decide what path is best for your time. The Creed means what we want it to mean,” Altair tells her intimately, “And others will agree if they see wisdom in that, and so they will follow. If it is an idea, not static but prone to interpretation and change, then it cannot truly die.”

She nods in understanding. Israh wants to ruminate on his words some more, but not now. Instead she stands and smiles widely, “Come, let us see if Malik made extra food today. I know you have forgotten to eat again. All this talk of philosophy has made me terribly hungry.”

He snorts in amusement, and follows her.

 

* * *

 

“He is in love with you, you know,” Malik tells her one night when they are alone in his rooms, having little patience for dancing around any given topic, “Perhaps he never stopped.”

She sighs, “I know. Is it obvious I feel the same?”

“Not to him,” he tells her, “He has always been adept at deluding himself.”

“Do you think Maria knows?”

“Oh yes,” Malik looks almost amused, “she most certainly knows.”

“Oh. Well then. When you find my body in a ditch somewhere, you don’t have to avenge me. I had a good run.”

He snickers behind his hand, and she shoots him an excitable grin.

“In seriousness,” he composes himself after a moment, “surely this is something that should be dealt with openly, and as soon as possible?”

“No,” she immediately disagrees, “No it should not.”

Malik shakes his head, but tactfully lets the subject drop.

Then Maria falls pregnant, and Altair becomes even more obviously and unabashedly devoted to her. Israh tries for numbness towards the scenario as opposed to jealousy, for she has no right to feel that way. Yet Malik treats her with a newfound gentleness that is too close to pity for her to tolerate, and Israh must refuse visits to Masyaf for a while under the pretext of being too busy. She takes a trip to Italy instead, trusting Altair and Luca –her First and Second respectively– to be able to handle Acre while she meets one of her newer Assassin Leaders in Florence. Rome already has a presence, but she has been hoping to expand Assassin influence across Italy for a few years now. It is a beautiful country, and Israh thinks she would not mind residing here permanently. Luca will surely be thrilled that she loves his homeland so much, and might want to come with her. Perhaps when she is older, and ready to settle. The trip has reminded her that she enjoys travel yet.

Through it all, she hunts for any information on Esteuan and the Piece of Eden she hopes he is still in possession of. Luca had carried her out of her prison in Medina, but upon sending more Assassins there when they were safe in Acre, the church had been thoroughly cleared out and there was no sign of Templar influence anywhere else in the city. Yet there is no doubt in her mind that Esteuan will always be searching for her, always looking to bring her back under his control. As long as he lives, she is not safe. And she must recover the Cross from the Templars before they use it to enact the ‘peace’ upon the populace they are likely planning for.

She does not think the Cross has been used overmuch, though. She dreams of it, sometimes. Other times she swears she can _feel_ it. A whisper in the back of her mind, a longing for dominance, a siren’s call she won’t follow. One night she dreamt of herself, dreamt of waking up only momentarily to clutch the Amulet closer to her chest before actually waking within Israh. She was still unsure if that had truly been a dream.

Upon her return to the Holy Land –as her ship docks in Acre’s port– Altair is there to greet her. She affectionately wonders who the traitor is in her midst that they would pass on her travel missives to him so he knew exactly when she would arrive; perhaps Luca or Lindiwe is more of a friend to him than she had realized.

It surprises her that he seems nervous, “You have been away for a long time.”

“A few months isn’t that long,” she disagrees, “Why, did something happen? Are the guilds alright?”

Altair nods stiffly, “The guilds are fine. The Assassins are well.”

He clenches his jaw and she notes there is tension in the air she does not yet understand, “Then what is wrong?”

She wishes she could see his eyes, but they are purposefully shadowed by his hood. A thousand dreaded thoughts seem to run through her head about what could have him on edge before he answers, “I was worried you would not return.”

Israh blinks as her lips part in surprise, but she doesn’t know what to say. She had not been expecting that. Had he been concerned she would run into trouble and get hurt, or...?

Suddenly she understands his train of thought, and it sends a wave of guilt lancing through her. He had been afraid she might have freely chosen to leave him again, permanently this time. Upon this realization her expression softens, and she steps closer to him, until she can peer under his hood. Altair looks at her with a rare vulnerability in his gaze. She is too close. The urge to touch her face is acted upon before he can think twice, and his fingers brush her cheek briefly before his hand lowers to the hilt of his sword. The weight makes him feel more secure, and right now he feels like a drowning man. Israh wants to kiss him. She wants to reassure him that she depends on him just as much as he does upon her. Altair lowers his head, and for a split second she is convinced he will kiss her, but his forehead simply comes to rest upon hers. They close their eyes and take a moment. Israh struggles to decide if she should hold her tongue or let all her thoughts and feelings spill forth, potentially ruining everything. He pulls away before she can make a decision.

“Come,” he requests quietly, “Luca is eager to tell you what a good leader he has been in your absence.”

She titters and follows readily, and he lets her hold onto his arm as they walk through the streets.

 

* * *

 

“Ahhh! _Shit!_ Fuck, god, this is pain! When will it- ah! Mother _fucker!_ ”

Maria is cussing up a beautiful English storm, but she may be forgiven for it since she is in labour. Israh struggles not to laugh, unsure if it would be highly inappropriate or not.

Altair is far too tense to laugh. He sees his wife in unimaginable pain and can do nothing, and that does not sit well with him.

“What can I do?” he asks again.

“Just hold her, if she approves.” Israh tells him as she works to finish distilling the herbs down enough for them to be an effective painkiller. She could use antibiotics too, but pure plant extracts would be the closest she would get.

Heeding her advice, Altair shifts further onto the bed so he can get an arm under Maria’s shoulders; she had been hesitant to let him touch her at first, but her labour is many hours in the making and she grows tired. Maria seems grateful to curl into him now.

“How much longer?” the Englishwoman asks. Israh comes over to check, and Maria hisses at her intruding fingers.

“Eight centimetres,” she mutters, “I would make an educated guess at another hour or two, if your progress is steady.”

Maria does not sob, but a sound close to it escapes her. Altair kisses the top of her head in comfort while Israh pats her knee gently.

“Nearly there, Maria,” she soothes encouragingly, “You’re doing so well. Isn’t she, Altair? Tell her she is doing well.”

“You are, my love,” he murmurs in her ear, “I knew you would. I am so proud.”

This seems to give the former Templar some fighting spirit back in time for her next wave of contractions.

“Here,” Israh hands Maria a cup of milky liquid, “You are ready to have some more. I made it stronger this time.”

Maria gulps it down gratefully, wincing at the taste when she is finished.

The baby boy arrives almost to Israh’s exact prediction. Maria grips a piece of leather between her teeth and bites down to muffle her cries. Israh wipes the blood from the boy as he wriggles and squalls, eager to get back to his mother.

“Already he seems to be a fighter,” Israh says fondly as she swaddles him in a clean, soft blanket to his great displeasure.

When Darim is placed into her arms, it is clear Maria is already in love. Altair’s expression mirrors that of his wife.

“He is perfect,” Maria whispers in reverence.

“Yes, he is,” her husband murmurs.

Israh looks on and thinks she would feel jealousy, but finds she can only feel a pure, genuine joy on their behalf.

 

* * *

 

Israh enjoys the Masyaf gardens, likely due to the fact that she is normally hauled up in Altair’s study for hours on end. While Maria enjoys spending much of her time relaxing outside, her husband rarely sets foot in the garden; Israh was there when he was forced to fight and kill Al Mualim, and thus does not blame him for it. It is not Altair she is here to see specifically, this time.

“Good afternoon, Israh.” Maria greets warmly, “It is good to see you. Altair is not here, I’m afraid; he and Malik have business in Jerusalem.”

“I heard, thank you, Rauf let me know,” Israh responds, “I thought I would come to check on you and Darim, while I’m here. May I sit with you?”

“Of course,” the Englishwoman permits, patting a cushion next to her with one hand while cradling Darim with her other arm. The other women who had been surrounding the Mentor’s wife shuffle around so Israh can sit comfortably.

“I almost want to skip training today,” a younger woman says wistfully, “just so I can hold him some more.”

“It’s my turn next!” Another interjects quickly. Israh recalls she was recently promoted from a Novice, but cannot remember her name.

Maria chuckles lightly, “He is not going anywhere, ladies. All of you can spend time with him.”

“Are you feeling well, Maria?” Israh asks, “Is Darim healthy?”

“Yes, thank you. He seems to be in high spirits, and I have recovered my strength.” Maria replies, before smiling, “Would you like to hold him?”

There is an indignant sound from the newly promoted Apprentice that makes the others giggle, but Israh is hesitant, “Are you sure that’s alright? I don’t consider myself very good with children, most days.”

“Nor did I,” The former Templar admits of herself, and that makes Israh grin, “but if I can manage, I’m sure you can as well.”

She eases her son into Israh’s arms, making only slight adjustments to be certain she is holding him properly. The Mentor cannot resist beaming down at him.

“Hello, darling,” she coos softly, much to Maria’s satisfaction.

“The rest of you are already late for training,” Maria notes sternly, “Off you go. You may hold him later.”

The women sigh and mope, but concede quickly. Darim curls a little hand around Israh’s finger, and she kisses it softly.

“He likes you.” The Englishwoman tells her when they are alone.

“Thank goodness,” The Mentor of Acre responds, “I could surely never show my face here again, if I did not have the little master’s approval.”

Maria laughs easily, and that makes Israh smile too.

“Oh, there was someone at the fortress gates with a message this morning.” Maria recalls abruptly, “He asked after you by name, so I assume he is from your guild. He seemed to be in a great hurry however, so he did not say much. He simply asked that I give you this, and said you would know what to do.”

Israh takes the scrap of parchment from her curiously. It is likely a follow up from her time in Italy, and she has been eager for news. Being careful not to disturb a lightly dozing Darim, she opens up the small note with fumbling fingers.

 

_Israh,_

_I can see your dreams._

-          _Esteuan_

 

She finds herself strangely calm and does not react right away. But Maria sees her face go pallid.

“Is something wrong?” she asks, alarmed, while Israh scoops up Darim to gently hand him back to his mother.

“This messenger,” Israh intones, “What did he look like?”

Maria takes a moment to think, “Slightly tan skin, dark hair, blue or gray eyes, I think. He was here but a moment-”

Abruptly, Israh stands, “It’s him. He knows I’m here.”

“Who?” Maria questions, getting to her feet much slower so as not to jostle her son.

“The Templar that held me captive.”

Maria’s eyes widen, “Dear god. Oh Israh, I am so sorry, I should have demanded he give me more information. Altair _told_ me of this man, and he was right here and I had no idea-!”

The former Templar seems infuriated with herself. Israh shakes her head.

“He carries a Piece of Eden,” she explains, “If you had tried to confront him he would have hurt you. You did nothing wrong, Maria.”

It is a delayed reaction, but her heart is pounding, and she hears the blood rush in her ears. She might be shaking, “I am sorry for putting you in danger, for putting Darim in danger. My being here puts your family at risk. I have to leave.”

Maria’s hand shoots out to grab her own tightly, “No! Absolutely not! For all we know that could be exactly what he wants. He could be waiting outside the city for you, waiting to rout you out.”

Israh concedes that the woman has a good point, and struggles to clamp down on her emotions. She is not even certain why she feels this way; has she not being searching for him, to end this? It should be good news that he is somewhere on her doorstep. Yet all she feels is slight nausea and the beginnings of a headache.

“The Templar did this to shake your confidence,” Maria advises decidedly, “Do not let him win. If he wishes to treat this as a game, then we will outmanoeuvre him. We will get to him first. Besides, Altair will want to see you, when he hears of this.”

Israh nods gravely, and Maria lets out a relieved sigh, “Stay the night. The fortress is the safest place for you. Malik and Altair are due to arrive back tomorrow.”

She is grateful for Maria’s support, and finds the woman’s grounding presence in bed beside her to be soothing. Yet Israh still does not sleep well that night.

When Altair returns and is informed of the incident, he is enraged.

“How dare he,” his voice has not risen any, but his tone takes on a murderous intent, “how dare he assume himself safe from me, safe enough to walk in and out of my stronghold without consequence. He did this specifically when I was not here to challenge him.”

It is likely true. The Apple might have responded to the Cross otherwise, and Altair may have been a equal match for him. Maria and Israh watch the Mentor pace the study like a restless animal while Malik reads over the note repeatedly, searching for any other clues.

“Is this all?” the Dai asks inquisitively, “‘I can see your dreams.’ What does that mean, Israh?”

She shakes her head, “I’m not certain. It could mean many things.”

“Does he mean it literally?” Malik wonders, “I have never heard of such a thing, but if there are Pieces of Eden involved we should not rule it out.”

“Maybe,” Israh agrees, “It could also be metaphorical. He likes to act as though he knows me. Knows my mind. It’s another way to hurt me.”

Altair turns abruptly, “He will pay for this in blood. No one may threaten my family and continue to draw breath.”

“Peace, Altair.” Maria cautions gently, “We mustn’t do anything rash. That could be what the Templar wants. Perhaps this is a test, to see how Israh will respond, or to see what allies she may have that could respond on her behalf. Do not tip your hand just yet, my love.”

Israh absorbs Maria’s wise words gratefully, but her mind is also on Altair’s words; when he said ‘family’, did that include her?

“Maria is right, as she so often is,” Malik says, “It would be sensible to gather more information before we make our own move.”

The Mentor of Masyaf sighs, reeling in his temper, “Very well.” Malik gives the note back to Israh before Altair addresses her directly, “Israh, you said you wished to deal with the Templar yourself, but we are involved now, as allies. We will help you.”

She smiles tightly and nods. It isn’t like she has much of a choice. Altair’s voice grows softer, “We will find him and kill him. You will not come to harm.”

Israh says nothing, but thinks he should not make promises he might not be able to keep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I building it up the romantic/slightly sexual tension between Israh and Altair well? I live for it so I'm not sure if it feels too fast.
> 
> I know that Darim is canonically born in 1195 but frankly I think that's a bit too soon, hence we are bending canon just a little here to slot in Israh somewhat better. Hopefully.


	6. Chapter 6

Years pass without incident. Maria falls pregnant with another son and Israh is there once again to help deliver Sef into the world. Altair gifts his wife a fine new blade and some rare flowers she wanted of him in gratitude for enduring such pain, just as he had with their first son.

The guilds grow stronger. Israh slowly introduces Altair to new methods and weapons in the interests of furthering Assassin technology ahead of its time, and hopes that will carry forward into the future. Lindiwe has her hands full with a sudden onslaught of recruits from Europe, and Luca comes into his own as a teacher. She can clearly see fine qualities fit for leadership in him, refined from the diamond in the rough she had recruited in Rome so many years ago. Yet the stirrings of discontent begin to rise again. Distracted by her personal Templar threat, she has not been as involved in the dealings of other Assassin branches as she should be. Some of her students grow restless at her apparent lack of interest, and she resolves to prove her commitment to them somehow before another Council is called to judge her, or worse.

The years also fly by without much progress in their collective hunt for Esteuan. At first Altair had taken it upon himself to escort her wherever she wished to go personally, until she gently had to let him know she did not appreciate it. Israh understood the reasoning behind it but she prefers to be alone, and she resents feeling like a burden. He had not understood until she explained he was making her feel caged.

“I already feel less free because he haunts me,” she clarified, “I don’t need that from you too.”

Altair had seemed somewhat wounded, but contrite, “I see. I’m sorry. Is there anything else I can do?”

Israh pecked him on the cheek lightly, “You are already doing enough to support me.”

He already had units of Masyaf Assassins tracking Esteuan, for what it was worth. The best they had come up with so far were questionable sightings in Damascus and Mecca, but there was one Brother that had likely come into contact with the Templar but was forced to forget. The Assassin had been sent back to Altair with demands that he cut ties with Israh before attacking his Mentor viciously. Altair managed to defend himself in a non lethal manner and subdued him, but the Brother remembered nothing of the incident. Though she knew it was not her fault, Israh still felt guilt at the fact that she had put him in such danger.

It scared her that Esteuan’s influence through the Cross was so powerful. But what could she do, except try to go about her life as normal? Perhaps she should wait until he finds her. It would put her at a disadvantage, but to finally have the conflict out of the way would be a relief no matter the outcome. Presently, the waiting in such insecurity is driving her to distraction.

Her dreams had unnerved her before, but now she regularly wakes screaming.

She hides her anxiety. Altair does not confront her directly for years, but she knows something is coming when he visits Acre so unexpectedly without sending word. It is also suspicious how hurriedly Luca bows out of another round of sparring with her so Altair can take his place. Israh watches Luca throw a furtive look towards the other Mentor as he leaves, and knows then that she has been ratted out. Luca must have told him of her troubles. She decides she must have a word with her Second about whose side he is supposedly on.

“Israh,” Altair commands her attention, “Focus.”

Reluctantly she does so, falling into a fighting stance that mirrors his. They circle each other for a while, analysing movement but understanding neither of their hearts are really in it, before Altair jumps forward. He tries to grab her but she is too quick for him, as he half expected. Israh slides out of the way almost exasperatingly well.

“I have heard troubling things about you,” he begins, watching her feet as she goes on the defensive and moves back.

“I’d expect so,” she answers flippantly, “I am not a nice girl.”

She thinks Altair might have smirked as he presses forward again, bolder this time. Israh allows him to snag a fistful of her robes before she twists his arm back by spinning her whole body around. He is forced to let go and stumble forward.

“It concerns your wellbeing, Israh.”

That makes her antsy. She expects him to let her respond but quicker than she can keep up with he is on her again, and this time he throws her down successfully. Altair pounces on her to keep her pinned before she can scramble to get up.

“You wake at night screaming,” his voice is louder and strained as he struggles with her, “I know you still get headaches. You jump at shadows. You are afraid!”

“I am not!” she defies fiercely, before her knee lands solidly in his stomach. He grunts upon impact but it is not enough to stop him; he only bears down even more and pries her legs apart so he can get his body between them. She hits him again for that, but he is having none of it.

“Admit it!” Altair commands heatedly, “You are a nervous wreck. He has gotten under your skin and wormed his way into your mind and you cannot expel him!”

“You are no better!” she accuses, and that makes him pause enough that she can flip their positions. He simply leans into her momentum to roll them over again instantly.

“What do you mean?” he asks urgently.

“It’s...none of your business!” she yells in between hits. Eventually he manages to catch her fists and pin them to the ground beside her head. She cries out in aggravation and struggles ineffectually, but he does not respond to her accusations. He only asks another question.

“How do I free you from this?”

Israh wilts, her whole body finally relaxing in his hold, “I don’t know.”

Altair leans over her so he can look her in the eye, “Let us go somewhere, you and I. Somewhere out of the way, that would make you feel safe. Just for a short while.”

Immediately she wants to accept. It sounds wonderful. Travelling with him to a destination they have never been before, seeing and learning new things together. She is on the cusp of saying yes when she remembers he is not a free man.

“You can’t leave Maria, and Darim and Sef,” she points out tiredly, “nor the Order. Not for such a trivial reason.”

“Your peace of mind is not trivial,” he argues firmly, “and they will not be unprotected. Malik can stand in, and my wife and children will be as safe as they can be in a fortress full of trained killers, especially one that has survived through an attack from a Piece of Eden before.”

He poses a good argument, but Israh still feels it is too selfish to run off with him even if it were only temporary. She sighs.

“Let me think on it some more,” she says, even though she won’t.

Altair frowns but does not call out her false indecisiveness. Instead he catches her eye again and tries to comprehend what she is thinking. She likes that about him. Even with his enemies he shows this curiosity; he makes an effort to understand people and their motivations. He must know _why._

For his part it bothers him that she is such a mystery, still. He wishes she would be more open with him. Altair remembers a time he thought he had her all figured out, in his arrogance. In truth he had known little of her, but she had a way of sharing only the smallest details about herself and yet making him feel as though he knew her better than anyone. He recalls trying to loosen her tongue with caresses from his own. Purposeful touches would lead to pleading with him would lead to yielding to him. When she gave in to the desires of their bodies he could ask whatever he pleased and she would forgive him for it, even if she wouldn’t answer. But he felt closer to her then. He misses that. He misses having her laid out beneath him, bare and aching and wanting.

Israh notes Altair’s eyes darken and can guess where his thoughts have drifted. It’s a good thing, for now. She wants to take his mind off leaving with her, for she thinks that is even more unwise than what she is about to do. With an innocent smile that belies her actions she shifts her body under him, expecting him to retreat from her. She is wrong. Instead Altair inhales sharply before moving closer, pressing her hands down more securely. Israh opens her mouth to stop him from going any further but then he rolls his hips against hers slowly, instinctually. Her breath catches deliciously, so he does it again.

“Altair,” she breathes. It is half a prayer, half a warning. Her breathing is a little heavy. He doesn’t want to stop. He wants her here and now. He wants to give in to the demanding coil of heat in his belly.

It takes another long breath to ground himself so he can release her hands. Yet his own hands caress her waist and thighs as he sits up. She quivers slightly from even these simple touches.

“Has there been anyone else?” he questions abruptly, “Since me?”

“No,” she answers immediately and truthfully, too dazed to consider anything else.

“Not even Luca?” he persists, his tone lowering.

Israh huffs softly in amusement, “No.”

Altair allows his hands to roam her body freely, fingers smoothing against any exposed skin he can find among the ties of her grey robes. His reply is almost too soft for her to hear, “Good.”

He knows it is hypocritical of him, to praise her for what he cannot offer himself. It is none of his business. Yet he takes this moment of selfishness for what it is. He swallows harshly before he finally moves away from her, standing quickly.

“Some time away from the Order will be good for you,” he suggests gently, “We can go wherever you like. Think on it.”

With that he takes his leave, but Israh does not move for a while. She remains staring at the sky thinking of what a fine mess she has gotten herself into now.

 

* * *

 

It is a few months later when Lindiwe lets a visitor into the Mentor’s study unannounced. Israh has thrown herself into her work in an attempt to forget all but the Order, and it shows. She is paler, thinner, and there are dark circles under her eyes that Maria clucks her tongue at and comments upon sternly.

Israh jumps and looks up sharply when she hears her voice.

“Oh.” The Mentor breathes. The urge to break eye contact is a strong one, but she does not look away. Her feelings for Altair is not something she is ashamed of and she would never tell him to choose; he has already chosen, or rather, she had chosen for him. She had left him and stayed away and was trying to do so again.

She had let him go hadn’t she? What more could she do?

Maria hums, but her expression is hard to discern. There is a deeply uncomfortable silence that endures for a long moment.

“It makes no sense to be jealous,” Maria says ever so quietly, “and yet I am.”

Israh doesn’t know why she finds that comical. She is probably anxious, “ _You,_ jealous of anyone? You are right, that is silly.”

“I think it might be because we are similar in many ways,” she theorizes, “It makes me feel less...unique, I suppose. Less special to him.”

The Mentor’s expression softens, “There is no need for us to compete.”

“I know,” Maria agrees, “We are both strong women and one does not diminish the other. Neither of us are one to suffer disrespect, Israh.”

They both smile at that, proud of the other for it.

“We cannot continue this way,” the former Templar decides, “His heart is torn. It causes him pain. And this hurts us too, to be so uncertain of where we stand.”

“It’s my fault,” Israh admits readily, deflating, “I shouldn’t have been here at all. I should never have met him, or you.”

“Be that as it may, he is in love with you now.”

She bites at her lips in disquiet before she responds in a small voice, “He loves you too.”

“Quite,” Maria affirms, “So what are we to do about it?”

Silence reigns again as they retreat into their own thoughts for a while. She knows what she wants but dare she ask?

Israh gathers all of her courage, “I...I am quite fond of you too, you know. I want us to be close. I want to hope that our love for Altair would bring us together, rather than driving a wedge between us?”

Maria considers her words for a moment, before Israh is graced with a cryptic smile.

“He has spoken of Constantinople,” The former Templar says suddenly, seeming to change the topic, “It would be useful to establish a guild in the city. Altair wants to go, but I cannot leave Sef while he is still so young. You should ask him to take you there.”

Constantinople. Altair is meant to fail in establishing a guild there, as she recalls. It is not a good idea to go now for the city will come under siege within the year and fall to the Crusaders. The Mentor wants to ask Maria to clarify the terms of this expedition, but she turns away and is gone from the room before she can gather her wits.

Israh feels she did not manage to ask for exactly what she wanted, but it seems to be a start.

She follows Maria’s advice regardless of the warning bells in her head telling her it is a foolish, fanciful idea. Yet she cannot bring herself to regret it in the face of Altair’s eager acceptance. It takes them a week to prepare for travel, but Malik and Luca wish them well.

They go by sea rather than land, leaving from the port of Acre. Israh takes pleasure in the open water and spends most of her time on deck, but he could do without the reminder he is upon such a vast death trap and stays in the cabin often. She does not tease him for his aversion; when he was young Altair had gotten into such awful trouble with his tutor that the punishment had left a scar upon his mind. The cruel tutor and his assistant had dunked his head into a barrel of water over and over again, never letting him catch his breath properly until Altair was certain they would kill him. His chest had felt compressed for days after. Altair did not disobey his tutor ever again despite his hatred for the man and was relieved when he died. So she is sympathetic whenever he comes up on deck.

“You are looking better,” he observes when they have been at sea a week.

She grins, “While you are looking somewhat worse for wear, dearest.”

He does not remark upon the term of endearment, only brings a hand up to scratch at the noticeable stubble on his face, “Travel suits you better than I, evidently.”

Israh laughs, “Evidently.”

They sleep in the same cabin, and that is fine for another few days, but then a bizarre and horrifying nightmare wakes her and her panic scares him. When he realizes there is no physical threat he moves to soothe her, holding her close and whispering reassurances that he is here, that no one will harm her. The images of what she dreamt of always seem to slip away, but the feeling of terror remains, as does the pain in her head.

After that, he settles into the same bed with her every night, and his presence does help somewhat. She spends more time in the cabin from that point on, and enjoys long mornings pretending to nap because then he won’t get out of bed either.

Until one early morning she wakes and he is not there. The cabin is still dark, but she stumbles around looking for a coat before she searches for him on deck. He is at the bow and stares directly ahead as she sidles up to him. Nothing need be said as she realizes what he is looking at. It is so early there is a dense fog over the land, but the sun is rising and through it Israh can see the beauty of Constantinople.

“Oh,” she sighs, “It’s stunning.”

Altair says nothing, but they gaze upon the city for a long time, and she thinks that means he agrees.

As much as Israh enjoys the sea even she is relieved to set foot on land again after so long. They search for an inn for the first few nights, until they can scout the city properly to find an alternative. The inn keeper thinks they are married when they ask for a room together, and neither of them opts to correct him. It is more convenient. That night Altair gets into bed with her without a word.

“Thank you,” she whispers into the darkness, and feels him lightly take her hand.

It is strange but not unpredictable that he seems to take more liberties with her since they agreed to travel together. He is much more liberal with his touches than he was before, and secretly she is glad of it.

Yet they still have work to do. Israh is hesitant to tell him that the city is meant to be sacked soon; he will likely want to leave and she does not wish to, and she would rather not deal with the inevitable fight to ensue. She will tell him eventually, just not yet. If she can help because she knows what is coming, if she can stop the Crusaders and the Templars within their ranks from taking the city, she is duty bound to try. After utilizing some viewpoints and gaining a layout of the city, Israh suggests they walk amongst the people.

“The Byzantines rule here,” she says, “it may be worthwhile to see what grievances the common people might have about that. A dispossessed soul is an easily recruited one.”

Altair nods, “Good. Our opening could be in protecting citizens from guards giving them a rough time, but be careful not to draw too much attention. It is wise to remain anonymous for as long as possible.”

“I know.”

She understands he is not trying to be condescending, he just worries about her. He seems to realize this a second after she does, “Ah. Of course you know. I only meant-”

Israh kisses his cheek to quiet him, “ _I know._ ”

They split up. Recruitment is their primary goal, but if they succeed those recruits would need to be trained. They would need somewhere to base themselves. And for that they need coin. The merchants here do not know her, and she is hesitant to approach them when she knows so little about life here and the realities of trade in such a diverse city. It would be best to listen for some rumours first, to gather information. Israh sits on a bench and is half distracted by the beauty of the public gardens, but she can listen in on the conversations of others well enough. It takes a surprisingly short time for her to find a mark. There is apparently a rich and successful trader visiting the city for business purposes who is hosting a grand feast tomorrow. Smiling, she returns to the inn, but not before stealing some appropriate costumes. Her work is done for the day.

Altair comes back late with a nick on his arm and a dour expression. She cleans his minor wound patiently while he explains that the Byzantine soldiers in the city are very well trained in comparison to the guards. Their fighting techniques are different to anything he has seen before.

“Well,” she assures him gently, “Assassins also have some techniques that many have not seen before.”

She has shown him methods using bombs and poison before. Now she presents him with another hidden blade, and shows him the mechanism within it that will fire small projectiles. Twelve bullets are all she managed to bring with her, but she gives them all to him regardless.

“It was meant to be a gift,” Israh tells him bashfully, “upon my return from Italy. I just forgot to give it to you, amongst everything else to think about.”

He seems touched, and brushes a kiss to her forehead, “It is magnificent. Thank you. Will you show me how you built such a thing? Can we practice with it tomorrow?”

“Of course,” she smirks at him, “I actually need your help with what I’m planning.”

 

* * *

 

It has been a while since he has seen her like this. Practicing stealth, she is in her element, and weaves and blends in and out of the dancers she resembles with grace and expertise. He thinks she may be teasing him in brushing her body against his often when she flits back and forth between the feast table and the dancing circle. Yet he cannot move from his post, as she well knows, or the guards will recognize he is not one of their own. Altair is forced to stand and watch as the trader places a hand on her back and guides her away from the party, but he does not stay still for long. Finally the guard she poisoned drops, and while the others flock to him, the Assassin is free to follow her to the merchant’s room.

Altair stays out of sight behind the balcony screen as the trader does his best to get her into his bed. He offers her fine wine and even finer jewels and trinkets, and Israh sighs in delight as she allows him to place an ostentatious necklace of gold and dazzling sapphires around her neck.

“It suits you beautifully,” the man tells her, “you could wear this later tonight. Perhaps, only this.”

Israh turns to him and whispers so that he must lean in to hear her, “Would you like that?”

“Yes,” the merchant answers immediately, “I would like that.”

Altair cannot stop the leaden weight of jealousy from settling into his stomach when she allows him to kiss her. He reminds himself this means nothing. It is but a means to an end. Israh wants _him,_ he knows she does.

It only takes a minute for the man’s breathing to falter, but that is more than enough time for Altair to be thoroughly sick of seeing his hands on her. He is glad when the man stumbles and falls. Israh catches him on the way down as best she can and Altair swiftly enters the room.

“Are you alright?” he asks. She wipes at her mouth and nods; her lips are beginning to tint a light blue, but since she pre-emptively swallowed the antidote the paralysing poison will not harm her.

“The thieves are in position,” he tells her quietly.

“Good,” she replies, “help me bag up as many valuables as you can find.”

They fill up sacks he smuggled in to the brim with the merchant’s goods, and lower them down to the thieves loitering casually under the balcony. Altair had been hesitant to trust them, but Israh spoke to them as allies, and promised them a cut of the stolen riches for their services. The group move quickly, catching a bag each and splitting up to take different routes back to their hideout.

“What if they double cross us?” Altair had asked when she told him of her plan.

“They know I am an Assassin,” Israh answered, “If they do not give me my spoils in gold then I will take it in blood.”

He has no doubt she would, yet he watches her display a softer side as she crouches down to check that the trader is still breathing. It is not necessary for him to die. When she straightens again she turns to leave, but he stops her.

His fingers brush against her neck as he removes the sapphires from her throat, and she shivers.

“It does not suit you,” Altair murmurs, placing the necklace into a pouch at his belt. He wants to leave it behind, but it will be worth a great deal.

“No?” she questions, leaning into his touch. He traces a path down her neck and along her collarbone before he answers.

“Red would suit you better,” he decides, “Rubies, or garnets.”

“The sultan seemed to think sapphires go well with my bare skin,” Israh teases lightly.

“He would not know,” Altair responds darkly, his fingers searching lower, “Whereas I do.”

If he insists on building anymore heat within her she thinks she may poison him by accident; the thought to press her lips to his is fleeting before she remembers the multitude of reasons why she should not. Her mouth still burns somewhat, but she mustn’t pass the fire on to him. Nonetheless it takes an exertion of will to pull herself away. They cannot linger. Israh leaves quickly and he follows. If they are seen they will hopefully look like lovers that stole a short moment away from the party.

When Israh rounds the corner at the bottom of the staircase, she is accosted by a man with no regard for propriety; he wraps his arms around her and grins lopsidedly. She can tell immediately that he is deep in his cups, and has not yet seen Altair coming down the stairs behind her.

“Such a beautiful dancer,” he slurs and sways, “won’t you dance for me?”

Israh has no patience to smile and act sweet and meek. She levels him with a look of disgust, and hopes he kisses her anyway so that he may get what he deserves. Altair hangs back a moment, waiting for her to deliver her own judgement on what the man’s punishment should be for touching her without permission.

“Take your hands off me,” she hisses vehemently.

The man seems to find her anger amusing, “But you are so soft and lovely! How else can I-”

His eyes widen as he catches sight of something over her shoulder, and it seems Altair has made his presence known. The man looks to be afraid.

“You heard her,” the Assassin intones, “Release her. Now.”

Instead the man responds aggressively. One arm tightens around her while another draws a knife to her throat. She cannot imagine what Altair must have done to make him exacerbate the situation like this.

“You are no guard!” the man stutters out, “I do not know you!”

“Calm down,” she whispers to both men, before they elect to do something rash.

Her efforts are in vain because true guards arrive then, and they draw their swords when they see the merchant’s son in distress. She counts six that she can see, but she dare not try to engage with the knife still poised to slit her throat.

Altair will not risk her life. He will not.

The hand of the trader’s son shakes as it is forced down and away from her. At first she doesn’t understand what is happening until she sees the golden glow. Until she sees the light stick to the men around her and push them down, onto their knees, onto the floor, and force them to sleep. Israh spins towards Altair in alarm to see him holding the Apple, and she is surprised to note he looks to be just as distraught as she.

“Let’s go!” she yells, and it snaps him out of whatever grips his thoughts. They run away in a flat out sprint, all attempts at stealth abandoned. They enter the inn through the window to their room in order to avoid unwanted questions. Her mind is still reeling. Everything had seemed to escalate so fast.

As soon as his feet touch the floor Altair tosses the Apple away from him like it burns. It rolls into the corner of the room and lies shimmering while he begins to pace back and forth. Israh watches him in great concern for a moment until it is clear he does not intend to explain what just happened.

“What did you do?” she accuses severely.

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and rubs at them. She has never seen him so stressed.

“I should not have used the Apple,” he states brusquely.

“No shit.”

He does not stop pacing, but does meet her eyes, “I do not regret keeping you from harm, only the means by which I achieved it. I am not concerned that I used it against those that threatened us, what disturbs me is that I almost used it on you.”

The confession shocks her, and she unconsciously takes a step back, “You...what?”

He _flinches_ when he sees her move away from him, “It was not a conscious thought, but one placed there by the Apple. When I used it on them, it seemed so natural to include you. You have knowledge and it called to you. It told me-”

Altair cuts himself off suddenly and looks away.

“What?” she demands, “It told you what?”

“That you were keeping things from me, important things. That if I used it on you I would know all that you know. All I had to do was use it to pull you to me. It would have been so _easy,_ ” He shakes his head and brings up his hands again to scrub at his face, “I need to be more careful.”

To know that he struggled so much with the Apple was disconcerting. She knew from his codex entries that it affected him his whole life, but to see how deeply it troubled him first-hand upset her. Israh warily eyes the Apple, still gleaming on the floor in the corner. It seems to twinkle at her in a way that begs her to pick it up.

It is beautiful. It is damned. And so are they.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a while to figure out what I wanted to do with their time in Constantinople, since I'm not sure what is meant to happen with Altair canonically. I know he's there in 1204 and fails to establish a guild, but I don't know if he was in the city before or after the sack, or even during it. So I'm taking creative liberties!


	7. Chapter 7

Israh holds onto Altair’s arm and pouts, “It may serve, but there doesn’t seem to be enough room for the children, don’t you think darling?”

Altair’s nostrils flare and she knows he is struggling not to smile. The homeowner is beside himself, “Not to worry, my good lady! There is more space concealed above and below us!”

The man shows them a ladder that folds down and allows access to another floor, and then leads them to a spacious cellar through a trapdoor. The whole house is large and airy and reasonably furnished; she especially likes the balconies and the rooftop garden. The seller wrings his hands zealously as he awaits their judgement.

“Does this please you, love?” Altair asks her softly.

Israh smiles pleasantly and nods.

“Then we will take it,” he says, turning to the realtor.

The man claps his hands, “Excellent, excellent! I have the paperwork right here.”

Altair writes in the name of the merchant and forges his signature. Israh smiles warmly at the house seller as he takes the document and rolls it up.

“It has been a pleasure,” she tells him courteously.

The man scoops up her hand to place a kiss there, “Why, the pleasure was all mine. What a doting husband you have, perfect for such a kind, graceful wife!”

The door barely swings shut with his departure before Israh catches Altair’s eye, and they struggle to stay serious only a moment; she bursts into giggles suddenly while he grins.

 

* * *

 

 It takes many months, but they begin to build a Brotherhood. Somewhat.

A couple of thieves are the first to join their cause, impressed by their skill in swindling the rich trader. As promised, Israh gave them all a portion of their haul, which they were wholly pleased with and thus solidified them as allies to the Assassins. The two recruits settled into their new home and strict training regime with moderate success; Altair is a stern Mentor and a demanding teacher who takes failure in stride but always expects improvement from his students.

While Altair took on most of the training, Israh continued to search for more recruits. She demonstrated a disappointing lack of results for a good long while until stumbling upon an opportunity quite by accident.

The child was no common thief else they would never have been caught filching from the market stall. Therefore Israh briefly wonders how such a pitiful thing has survived this long as she jumps down onto one of the child’s pursuers, dispatching him expertly. The little one is fast though, faster than the other guards chasing them are. Israh takes an alternate route to get ahead of them, and then snatches the child out of harm’s way. They struggle against her a moment in panic before Israh wraps her cloak around them securely and pulls them down to sit on a bench with her.

“Stop squirming and be silent,” she shushes, holding the little one close to her to hide their face.

The guards grumble loudly at their fruitless pursuit while the child sits on her knee stiffly. When they give up the search the young one scrambles away from her. Israh does not get one word out before the child is off again, running down a side street. She shakes her head and sighs, but the little one’s distrust is of no consequence. It is wise in fact. She is merely beginning to become frustrated in helping people as much as she can and receiving nothing in return. Israh has saved many citizens from perilous situations in the hope of recruiting them but every single one of them has thus far turned her down. She is starting to believe she is doing something wrong.

“Perhaps they are intimidated by you,” Altair says with a small smirk that he tries to hide by blowing into his cupped hands in an effort to warm them. The winter months are beginning to thaw but the nights especially are still cold, and he has taken to lighting a fire before they sleep.

She makes a noise between amusement and incredulity, “Despite the fact that I appear perfectly sweet and trustworthy? Just look at me, I’m as soft and light as a feather.”

He does look at her, in a way that sets her heart racing. Being alone with him in such close proximity is wearing down her resolve to never pursue his affection, but she will not disrespect Maria like that. She refuses to disrespect all three of them in such a fashion.

“You are,” Altair agrees, placing the grate over the fireplace before he stands, “And yet you are still deadly. I would think that makes it worse, because it is so unexpected.”

Israh flops back onto their veritable nest of cushions and blankets they have taken to sleeping in, “Well, that is the point is it not?”

He drops down beside her and stretches out, putting his hands behind his head, “It is. Most people simply do not have the fortitude for our work, as it should be.”

“But how can we protect them if they will not protect themselves?” she asks, staring up at the ceiling of the attic dejectedly.

Altair does not have an answer.

In the morning Israh finds a package on their doorstep, and is immediately suspicious. She opens it outside, on the neighbour’s roof, with Altair watching cautiously from the window of their attic after being ordered to stay back. The bread seems innocuous enough yet she is hesitant to touch it with bare skin.

“Poison?” Altair asks shortly when she shows him the food partially wrapped in cloth.

“I cannot tell,” she replies, giving the bread a careful sniff, “Not any that I can pick up on.”

He is quiet but she knows his mind is flashing through possible suspects and motives and responses at a mile a minute. She takes a moment to think too. The merchant they stole from, his son, and all who serve them are enemies, but she is confident they do not know them and will not find them, especially since it is likely they have given up the search now. They have allies in some factions of thieves but they are not permitted to know where their base is. The only other suspect she can think of is-

“The child,” she speaks aloud, and Altair’s eyes focus upon her once more, waiting for elaboration, “I helped a child yesterday. They were caught stealing from a bread cart. But they would surely never give up their food where they so desperately needed it?”

It is a question more to herself than him, but he answers regardless, “If they were grateful enough, perhaps so. I am more concerned that they saw you enter here.”

“I came in through the window,” she mumbles, somewhat embarrassed she had evidently not been stealthy enough.

“We will let this go for now,” he decides, “And hope the action is simply one of goodwill.”

Nevertheless, the gesture intrigues her and she cannot let it be. The next day she sits on the same bench where she had hid the child from hostile eyes, and waits. She waits almost all day and feels somewhat guilty for doing no work, but then her patience pays off.

A little boy sits next to her and whispers, “You’re the lady that helped Vesta. Did you get the bread?”

Israh glances at him out of the corner of her eye and whispers back, “I did, thank you. Are you certain Vesta doesn’t need it?”

The boy nods, “We need it, but they wanted you to have it anyway.”

Provided the bread is truly safe, that would mean the child has honour. Israh smiles in approval.

“Who is ‘we’?” she questions, hoping it will not scare the boy away.

Yet he seems to trust her already, “Everyone in the gutter. That’s what we call home. Mistress is old and sick, so she can’t clean to feed us anymore. That’s why Vesta tried stealing.”

“Mistress is the only one who takes care of you?”

He nods.

“How many children live in the gutter?”

He shrugs, “Lots.”

Israh bites her lip as she thinks. Children are easy to mould and easier to train than adults who already have bad habits ingrained into them. But they also require looking after, and she and Altair cannot stay and wait for them to grow.

And yet, the child has honour. That is a good sign.

“So you need someone else to look after you?” she asks slowly.

“Mistress will die soon, Euginia says,” the boy tells her sadly, “We don’t know what we’ll do then.”

Altair will probably not like it. But she has made her choice, soft hearted as it is.

“I have a home you could go to,” she offers gently, “It is not a kind home though. To live there you must train to become strong, fast and hard. It is not an easy life, but it is a necessary one.”

He ponders for a moment before turning to her hesitantly, “Will there be food? And beds?”

“Yes. You will not go hungry or cold. Not unless it’s part of your training.”

“Training for what?” he asks curiously, and the question is so innocent she doubts she is doing the right thing.

Israh steels herself. It will not do to keep the child ignorant, “Killing people.”

The child flinches back some and she does not blame him. He is wide eyed but still he asks questions, “Why?”

That is another thing she likes about children. They want to learn more so than adults do; they seek answers at the root of things rather than pretending they already know all or simply accepting surface level explanations.

“Because they seek to hurt others,” she responds steadily, “So we must stop them. We fight for safety and peace.”

He is quiet again while he thinks, and Israh does not try to push him down the path she wants. The boy is young but he is still a person, and can make his own decisions.

“Those are good things,” he says slowly, “But do you have to kill people to do it? Killing is bad.”

She smiles gently, “Not always, little one. It can be for the best as long as your target is corrupt or cruel or hateful. These people do harm unto others, and so innocent people are freed by their deaths.”

The boy is utterly serious as he stares at her, “So I would be killing people like my parents?”

Her heart hurts a little, but she takes him just as seriously, “If your parents hurt you then they might be a threat, and it may be for the best that they die.”

He nods, “Okay. I think I understand,” Then he jumps up, “I’ll tell Vesta and Euginia about what you said. Can you come back here tomorrow?”

Israh stands too, grateful to stretch her legs, “If you like. Will you tell your mistress about me?”

“I should,” the boy says, “But she might be angry.”

“I would like to meet her,” she tells him, “If you could tell her that, I would be grateful.”

He lights up, glad that he would not have to keep secrets from his caretaker, “Alright. Tomorrow then?”

Israh bows her head in agreement, and the boy scurries off.

Though she knows it is cowardly she is glad Altair is not home. It is late into the night but she is not worried overmuch; their two recruits are gone as well, so it is likely they are simply out on a training exercise. Israh sits in the nest up in the attic with a glass of wine and heavy thoughts. There are many things she must tell Altair, but she is afraid to do it. She must tell him about the children she hopes to recruit. She should tell him that his attempt at establishing a guild here is supposed to fail, and so that may be inevitable. They could be wasting their time. But she won’t, not yet.

Israh knows it is mere months until the Crusaders will be at Constantinople’s walls and they will eventually sack the city mercilessly. As of yet she does not see a way to stop it from the very brief surveying of the city’s defences she has done; Altair rarely leaves her alone for an entire day as their work requires they communicate almost constantly and she does not wish to make him suspicious by withdrawing from him. Yet she will find a way to help without putting him in harm’s way. She will not leave the citizens to suffer such a cruel fate. Especially the children. They will be utterly defenceless when the city falls and she will not stand for it.

Israh sips her wine, and begins to form a plan.

 

* * *

 

 The boy comes to their agreed meeting place in the morning, as promised.

“Come with me,” he says, taking her hand. Israh lets him lead her into the worst parts of the city; Constantinople is rich and prosperous but not for everyone. For one to be rich another must be poor. The building the boy leads her into is derelict, and looks thoroughly abandoned from the outside. Yet inside the young inhabitants peak out from their hiding places to catch a glimpse of her.

“Mistress is in here,” the boy offers helpfully when they come to another shabby door.

Israh pushes it open without hesitation. The room is dim in a quiet, soothing way, and there is much less dust here than through the rest of the house. The bed is the finest thing in the room, simple as it is, but it is also the cleanest thing she has seen thus far. In fact, the home in general is reasonably clean and tidy, for all she had expected a hovel.

Nonetheless, the elderly woman in bed apologises for the state of the house, “Please forgive the mess. None of my children enjoy cleaning, but then, who does?”

Israh would smile in amusement but the mood is dampened by the girl sitting at the edge of the bed, glaring at her in distrust. Israh closes the door quietly and moves further into the room.

“Euginia, show some manners. You have been raised in a gutter, not a barn,” the old woman chides. Her voice is gravelly with age but not weak by any means. The girl, Euginia, stands and drops into a neat curtsy before hurriedly sitting again. Israh responds by placing a hand over her heart and then extending it to her in respect.

The old woman chuckles, “Vesta told me you saved them from losing their thieving fingers, and Cometas says you offer him a new home. Is this true?”

Israh appreciates getting right down to business, “It is. I hear all your children may soon need a new home.”

As if on cue, the woman coughs, and the sound is wet and sickly. Euginia holds her hand until the fit is over. It takes a long moment for the woman to get her breath back, “I can hardly deny it. They will need another caretaker when I am gone.”

“I told you I can do it,” Euginia interjects firmly, “We can stay here and I can look after them.”

“And have told you that you are still a child yourself,” the elder argues, “You think I don’t know where you’ve been off at night girl? Hanging around brothels hoping they’ll take you on? It will keep everyone fed, yes, but I want better for you.”

Euginia scowls, but does not look away. She is not ashamed to do whatever necessary to survive. Israh thinks that is also a very good sign. These children are cut from the right kind of cloth.

“So tell me,” the elderly woman addresses Israh with steel in her gaze, “What life are you offering my children? Cometas says you deal in murder.”

Israh is glad her face is mostly hidden under her hood, “He speaks the truth. I did warn him it was not a pleasant life.”

The woman huffs, but Euginia is looking at her differently now. Something like determination when faced with an opportunity is in her eyes, and Israh thinks she may have a new recruit even if the old woman does not give consent.

“Their lives have not been pleasant thus far,” the woman tells her, “they are orphans, cast offs, unfortunate little things born into poor circumstances. I simply wish that their lives become no worse.”

“I see,” the Assassin says, “So you took them in and cared for them, all on your own?”

“Well no one else was going to do it,” she replies, ruffled and firm, and Israh smiles in admiration. There is a small moment of quiet while the old woman sizes her up and Israh thinks of words to use that may put her mind at ease.

“They will be better off as Assassins,” she intones quietly, “I cannot say they will never know pain, or fear. They will be pushed to their limits in training and will become far too comfortable with spilling blood. Yet we also search for safety and peace for every individual. If they join us they will become siblings and all of our kin protect each other. We strive to keep people safe. We seek to correct injustice. It is a difficult path to walk, but it is a worthy one. They will be dedicating their lives to a just cause.”

“So they will not be free?” the woman concludes harshly.

The question takes Israh off guard, but she speaks truthfully, “None of us are, one way or another.” Esteuan had taught her that as much as she loathes seeing wisdom in anything he said to her, “They will be bound to the Order. But the skills we give them will free them in a sense; they will not be helpless at the hands of another ever again, nor will their minds be shackled by illusions. Nothing is true, everything is permitted.”

The elder does not look happy, but she sighs, “We are desperate, and I see no other options. I am tired. It is not the worst thing that could happen to them by any means. Take them then, but not yet. I wish to die surrounded by my children.”

Euginia looks as though she is struggling to maintain a neutral expression but does not quite succeed. Israh steps forward and lightly places a hand over the woman’s wrinkled one, “I will take care of them.”

“You had better.”

 

* * *

 

 She stays in the ‘gutter’ for two more days, not having the heart to leave. It would be kinder to the children that they know her before they are moved into a new environment regardless. Vesta and Cometas trust her well enough, and Euginia sets about immediately questioning Israh about what will be expected of her as a trainee Assassin with the gusto of one that throws themselves fully into any task they put their minds to. Some of the other children are less enthusiastic however, and do not take to Israh at all. They see her only as the person who will take them away from the only home and caretaker they have come to love.

“I don’t want to go!” a scrawny little girl cries, rubbing at her eyes and stubbornly refusing to pack her things.

“Hush,” Euginia orders, but not harshly. She is the eldest of them all at four and ten, and already she acts much older. She kneels at the girl’s side and wipes away her tears, “Mistress has gone to heaven now, so we must move elsewhere.”

Israh and Euginia buried the elderly woman outside of the city, not having the funds for a proper burial within it. Euginia told her she wouldn’t have wanted that anyway.

“She never really liked it here,” the girl told her, with smears of dirt on her face as she furiously burrows into the ground with her shovel, “She just stayed because we needed her.”

The circumstances that led to their recruitment make Israh feel sombre and grim, but she would take the sentiment any day over the look Altair levels her with when she holds the door open for the children and they march into their base single file. There are thirteen of them in all, but they are small and thin and there’s more than enough room for them to pile into the kitchen.

“A word?” Altair tells her more than asks as he brushes past her, heading for the attic. She sighs wearily.

“Feed them?” she requests of the only other adults in the room. The two recruits – Florian and Patricia – thankfully do not question her and set about finding more plates and bowls to scrape stew and bread into. Israh follows Altair up the stairs and again up the ladder, and he turns to her as soon as she is through.

“What are you thinking?” he questions harshly, kicking the trap door shut so they will not be overheard, “We do not have the means to take them all in.”

“I will find the means,” she replies firmly, “They had nowhere else to go.”

“We cannot take in every stray from the street, especially when they are not useful to the Order. They can stay for the night but you must send them away in the morning.”

Israh shakes her head, “I will not.”

Altair sighs in frustration, “Israh, be reasonable. How do you expect to look after them? They are _children._ They must be supervised at all times. They cannot defend themselves from trouble. They are a burden as they are now, one we cannot afford to bear while we are in such early stages of building this guild. They need to have a constant caretaker and we cannot fill that role, nor can the recruits.”

She knows he is right but she argues anyway, “They are stronger and more independent than you think. These children are already honourable, and brave, and smart. I know they will grow into good, worthy people and they deserve the chance to do so. I won’t deny them that due to my own failings.”

Altair is still obviously displeased and it needles at her quite a bit. She is stubborn once she has made up her mind but she values his high regard and hates when she does not have it.

“I have built a guild by myself before,” she reminds him, aggravated, “I started recruiting from the streets of Acre and expanded from there. I know what I am doing. Trust me.”

She might have convinced him had she not said those last two words; he latches onto them angrily and suddenly he is all bluster, “How can you ask that of me when you do not extend the same courtesy? I have so many questions for you yet I hold my tongue because I know you believe it unwise to give me the answers. Yet even this is not enough for you! You seem to expect blind faith from me where you know I cannot abide by it!”

The accusation cuts deep because there is a ring of truth to it. She flounders for a response for a moment before he ploughs on, “You will not tell me of the future even though it directly concerns me. I know you are keeping things from me and I grow tired of it. You act as though only you can solve every problem there may ever be and never seek the assistance of any other. I know you are planning something concerning this city, and I demand to know what!”

Israh glowers even as her mouth drops open in shock, “How do you know that?”

Altair does not answer but his hood is down for once and she can see the defensiveness in his eyes. It takes her a moment to put two and two together.

“You are unbelievable,” she growls, “You said you needed to be more careful yet you use the Apple anyway. Ask it questions about me specifically, do you? Do you enjoy invading my privacy?”

He is a little guilty but his anger overrides it, “It would not be necessary if you would trust me. You were gone for days without a word and I knew not where to look for you. You do not tell me anything!”

“Fine!” she explodes, “What exactly do you want to know?! Do you want me to describe in detail all the terrible things that are going to happen to you? Do you want to know who lives and who dies at any given moment? Do you want to know that at this very instant Crusaders are diverting from Zara to siege Constantinople?!”

Altair’s face goes slack with shock, but she turns her back to him; she fears she might cry under the weight of helplessness despite all her knowledge, and she does not want him to see such weakness. He will not allow her to hide from him, however. Altair takes hold of her arms to turn her around and she latches onto him straight away, hiding her face in his neck. He sighs as he runs a hand through her hair, slowly undoing her braid as he speaks.

“That which increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow,” he recites despondently, “Your knowledge is a burden to you more than a boon, I know. You cannot save everyone even when you know where and when they will be hurt. It is a difficult thing.”

Israh clutches at the material of his robes at his back and closes her eyes, breathing him in. In his arms nothing else matters. She is safe and at peace.

“You need not carry this weight alone in future,” he advises gently, “I am here. You can tell me what you know. You can trust me.”

“I love you,” she tells him. It is her deepest, darkest secret.

Altair is not taken off guard. He pulls away just enough to get a hand under her chin so he can angle her face towards his. He touches their foreheads together, and their noses, and tilts his head and presses forward...except she moves back. She slips out of his hold and turns from him again, only for a moment.

“I don’t have a plan to defend the city truly,” Israh confides, smiling wryly, “Beyond telling the army generals exactly when and how the Crusaders will attack and praying they believe me and I am not burned as a witch or a traitor or something of the sort.”

Right now, he does not want to talk about fighting or the city or the Order. He wants her. For too long he has been worn out by this keen longing that has taken up residence within him, and he knows he is not imagining the tension between them. Altair is afraid she will take his wanting as a form of disrespect or dishonour. He fears she will be insulted on his and Maria’s behalf as well as her own. He does not know how to tell her all of his wants and fears and doubts and he is terrified but he leaps anyway, “Marry me.”

Whatever he intended to say, of all the things he could have said, that should not have been it.

Israh’s eyes go wide and her lips part in shock. She is speechless for a solid minute until he poorly attempts to salvage the situation, “Legal and religious scripture states a man cannot have two wives, but the Creed is not bound by such things. Others have done it before.”

She still has no idea what to say, so he takes her face in his hands and kisses her. His heart is hammering fearfully but her lips upon his are indescribably soothing. Altair is not good with words when expressing such sentiment so he hopes his actions make things clear; he kisses her desperately, reverently, trying to communicate what he feels in a touch.

Israh pushes him away, gasping, “No!”

The pain he feels is cutting and intense but he is well versed in not letting it show on his face. His eyes have always been expressive however and he cannot help that. She seems to curl in on herself under the weight of his betrayed stare, hunching her shoulders and crossing her arms as she repeats the word, “No.”

Altair cannot look at her anymore. He is wounded and embarrassed and trying to say anything more will likely make things worse. He manages to make a noise of understanding that sounds as though there is a painful lump lodged in his throat, and then makes his escape shamefully quickly through the attic window. She does not attempt to call him back. She needs time to gather her wits; for now her mind is blank and she presses her fingers to her lips in shock.

Meanwhile, Altair runs over rooftops almost to the other side of the city until he finds a tough looking tree and blunts his throwing knives by slashing into the branches repeatedly. Telling himself all the while that he is such an _idiot._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smooth, Altair. Real smooth mate.
> 
> Listen, Altair is a hopeless romantic who only acts as though he feels nothing most of the time because actually he feels too much. It is known. Remember Adha, guys? Your first love is she, Altair? Sure, you're only vaguely acquainted and have barely communicated with each other at all throughout the entirety of your lives but you're gonna risk life and limb to chase her down anyway and oh you LOVE her now do you? That was fast. Oh bless you're gonna run away together are you? Gonna run off into the sunset and elope and live a 'normal' life in barely acquainted bliss? Oh no she's been captured, time to be her knight in shining armour and spend a long ass time trying to save her and whoops she's dead now, so I guess the only logical thing to do is to *mercilessly hunt down and murder every single person that had anything to do with her death.* Yep. Solid. And then stew in grief for too long which leads to resentment towards the Creed which leads to being such an asshole in Solomon's Temple.
> 
> Yeah. Okay mate.


End file.
